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58 


JUL  -  ^M 

tj^Z 


mi] 


on 


THE 


COMPLETE  WORKS 


ALFRED  TJINNYSON, 

IKCKKDINQ  * 

THE  DRAMAS     QUEEN  MARY"  AND  "  HAROLD,' ' 
And  all  the  Ballads  aitd  Posms. 


COMPLETE 

VOL.  II.  H  u, 

 mWrnrry  Of  ILL 

CHICAGO: 
DONOHUE,  HENNEBERRY  &.  CO., 

407-425  Dearborn  St. 


I 


INDEX— Vol.  IT. 


KThe  Higher  Pantheism    291 

^Sone :  "  Flower  in  the  crannied 

^   wall,"    291 

Literary  Squabbles   291 

Idyls  oi  the  King 

Dedication    292 

The  Coming  of  Arthur   293 

Gareth  and  Lynette   300 


Geraint  and  Enid   325«  rf)e  Prof  undis  : 


The  First  Quarrel   583 

iJlizpah   585 

The  Northern  Cobbler   587 

The  Sisters   589 

The  Village  Wife  ;  or,'  The  Eiitail 594 

In  the  Children't<  Hospital   597 

Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Lord  Cobham.  598 

Columbus   602 

The  Voyage  of  Maeldune   606 


Merlin  and  Vivien   355    -^xnc  xw»j  vjicchj 

Lancelot  and  Elaine   369j     The  Human  Cry 


The  Holy  Grail   393' 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre   409 

The  Last  Tournajja^nt   419 


-<juinevere 


432 


The  Passing  of  Arthur   444 

Wn  the  Garden  at  Swainston   451 

J[he  Voice  and  the  Peak   452 

^o  the  Queen   452 

A  Welcome  to  the  Duke  and 

Duchess  of  Edinburgh   453 

Queen  Mary   454 

Harold   516 

miP^e  Ballad  of  the  Fleet   .  550 

The  Defence  of  Lucknow   553 

The  Lover's  Tale   558 


^The  Two  Greetings  . 


  610 

Prefatory  Sonnet  to  the  'Nine- 
teenth Century '   610 

Achilles  over  the  Trench   613 

To  the  Princess  Frederica  of  Han- 
over, on  her  Marriage   614 

Sir  John  Franklin   614 

To  Dante   614 

To  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield   610 

Montenegro   611 

To  Victor  Hugo   611 

The  City  Child   611 

Minnie  and  Winnie   611 

Battle  of  Brunanburh  612 


712411 


TENNYSON'S  COMPLETE  POEMS. 


VOLUME  II. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas, 
the  hills  and  the  plains  — 

Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of 
Him  who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ?  tho'  He  be  not 

that  which  He  seems  ? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and 

do  we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 
Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of 

body  and  limb. 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy 

division  from  Him  ? 
Dark  is  the  world  to  thee  :  thyself  ar-^ 

the  reason  why  ; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  has 

power  to  feel  "  I  am  I  ?  " 
Glory  about  thee,  without  thee  ;  and 

thou  fultillest  thy  doom, 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a 

stifled  splendor  and  gloom. 
Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and 

Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet- 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer 

than  hands  and  feet. 
God  is  law,  bslj  the  wise  ;  OBoul,  and 

let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder 

is  yet  His  voice. 


Law  is  God,  say  some  :  no  God  at  all, 

says  the  fool  ; 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a 

straight  staff  bent  in  a  pool  ; 
And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and 

the  eye  of  man  cannot  see  ; 
But   if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this 

Vision— were  it  not  He  ? 


SONG. 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies  ; — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my 
hand. 

Little  flower— but  if  I  could  under- 
stand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in 
all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


LITERARY  SQUABBLES. 

Ah  God  !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme 
That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pigmy  wars 
Before  the  stony  face  of  Time, 
Ai;id  look'd  at  by  the  silent  stars ; 


292 


DEDICATION. 


Wlio  liate  each  other  for  a  song, 
And  do  their  little  best  to  bite 
And  pinch  their  brethren  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite  : 

And  strain  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  cannot  hear 
The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  doom 
On  them  and  theirs  and  all  things 
here  : 

Yf  hen  one  small  touch  of  Charity 
Could  lift  them  nearer  God-like  state 
Than  if  the  crowded  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  who  cried  Diana  great : 

And  I  too,  talk,  and  lose  the  touch 

I  talk  of.    Surely,  after  all, 

The  noblest  answer  unto  such 

Is  perfect  stillness  when  they  brawl. 


DEDICATION. 

These  to  His  Memory— since  he  held 
them  dear, 

Perchance  as  finding  there  uncon- 
sciously 

Some  image  of  himself— I  dedicate, 
I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears— 
These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 
"  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as 
his  king ; 

Whose  glory  was,  redressing  human 
wrong  ; 

Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd 
to  it ; 

Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to 
her — " 

Her — over  all  whose  realms  to  their 
last  isle, 

Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  immi- 
nent war, 

The  shadow  of  His  loss  drew  like 
eclipse, 

Darkening  the  world.  We  have  lost 
him  :  he  is  gone  : 

We  know  him  now  :  all  narrow  jeal- 
ousies 

Are  silent ;  and  we  see  him  as  he 
moved, 

How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish'd, 
wise> 


With  what  sublime  repression  of  him- 
self. 

And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly ; 
Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 
Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 
perch 

Of  wing'd  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage- 
ground 

For  pleasure ;  but  thro'  all  this  tract 
of  years 

Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blame- 
less life, 

Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a 
throne. 

And  blackens  every  blot :  for  where  is 
he, 

Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstain'd,  than 
his? 

Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of 
his  sons 

Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inher- 
itance 

Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as 
thine, 

Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 
Laborious  for  her  people    and  her 
poor — 

Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler 

day- 
Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and 

Waste 

To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of 

peace- 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious 

gleam 

Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince  in- 
deed, 

Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household 
name. 

Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the 
Good. 

Break  not,  O  woman's-heart,  but  still 
endure  ; 

Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  en« 
dure. 

Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that 
star 

Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee,  that 
ye  made 

One  light  together,  but  has  past  and 
leaves 

The  Crown  a  lonely  splendor. 


THE  COMING 

May  all  love, 
His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o'ershadow 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  daughter*  cherish 
Thee, 

The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort 
Thee, 

Till  God's  iove  set  Thee  at  his  side 
again  ! 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 
Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other 
child  ; 

And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on 
earth, 

Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For  many  a  petty  king  ere  Arthur 
came 

Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging  war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land  ; 
And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen 
host 

Swarm'd  overseas,  and  harried  what 
was  left. 

And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wil- 
derness, 

Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 
more, 

Bat  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur 
came. 

For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought  and 
died. 

And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and 
died. 

But  either  fail'^  to  make  the  kingdom 
one. 

And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a 

space 

And  thro'  the  puissance  of  his  Table 
Round, 

Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under 
him, 

Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a  realm, 
and  reign'd. 

And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard  was 
waste, 

Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a 
beast  therein. 


OF  ARTHUR,  293 

And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the 
beast ; 

So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar 
and  bear 

Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in  the 
fields. 

And  wallowed  in  the  gardens  of  the 
king. 

And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would 
steal 

The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and 
then, 

Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her 

fierce  teat 
To  human  sucklings  ;  and  the  children, 

housed 

In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat 

would  growl, 
And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  four 

feet, 

Till,  straighten'd,  they  grew  up  to  wolf* 
like  men, 

Worse  than  the  wolves.    And  King 

Leodogran 
Groan'd  for  the  Roman  legions  here 

again, 

And  Cesar's  eagle  :  then  his  brother 
king, 

Rience,  assail' d  him  :  last  a  heathen 
horde. 

Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and 
earth  with  blood. 

And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  moth- 
er's heart 

Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till, 
amazed, 

He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn 
for  aid. 

But^for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 
crown'd, 

Tho'  not  without  an  uproar  made  by 
those 

Who  cried,  "  He  is  not  Uther' s  son  " — 
the  king 

Sent  to  him,  saying,  Arise,  and  help 
us  thou  ! 

For  here  between  the  man  and  beast 
we  die." 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed  of 
arms, 

But  heard  the  call,  and  came  :  and 

Guinevere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walla  to  watch  him 

pass ; 


'294 


THE  COMma  OF  ARTHUR, 


But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or 
shield 

The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 
But  rode  a  simple  knight  among  his 
knights, 

And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms  than 
he, 

She  saw  him  not,  or  mark'd  not,  if  she 
saw. 

One  among  many,  tho'  his  face  was 
bare. 

But  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he 
past. 

Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his 
life 

Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 
pitch'd 

His  tents  beside  the  forest.   And  he 
drave 

The  heathen,  and  he  slew  the  beast, 

and  fell'd 
The  forest,  and  let  in  the  sun,  and 

made 

Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and 

the  knight ; 
And  so  return' d. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A  doubt  that  ever  smoulder'd  in  the 
hearts 

Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his 
realm 

Flash'd  forth  and  into  war  :  for  most 
of  these 

Made  head  against  him,  crying,  Who 
is  he 

That  he  should  rule  us?   who  hath 

proven  him, 
King  Uther's  son  ?  for  lo  !  we  look  at 

him 

And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs 

nor  voice. 
Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we 

knew. 

This  is  the  son  of  Gorloi's,  not  the 
king  ; 

This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  king." 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  battle, 
felt 

Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the 
life, 

Desiring  to  be  join'd  with  Guinevere  ; 
And  thinking  as  he  rode,    Her  father 
said 


That  there  between  the  men  and  beast 
they  die. 

Shall  I  not  lift  her  from  this  land  of 
beasts 

Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with 
me  ? 

What  happiness  to  reign  a  lonely  king, 
Vext—  O  ye  stars  that  shudder  over  me, 

0  earth  that  soundest  hollow  under 

me, 

Vext  with  waste  dreams  ?  for  saving  I 
be  join'd 

To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world, 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work 

Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 
realm 

Victor  and  lord.   But  were  I  join'd 
with  her. 

Then  might  we  live  together  as  one 
life, 

And  reigning  with  one  will  in  every- 
thing 

Have  power  on  this  dark  land  to  light- 
en it. 

And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make 
it  live." 

And  Arthur  from  the  field  of  battle 

sent 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leo- 
dogran, 

Saying,  "If  I  in  aught  have  served 

thee  well, 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to 

wife." 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran  in 
heart 

Debating — How  should  I  that  am  a 
king. 

However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need, 
Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a  king, 
And  a  king's  son  " — lifted  his  voice, 

and  call'd 
A  hoary   man,  his   chamberlain,  to 

whom 

He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him  re- 
quired 

His  counsel  :   "  Knowest  thou  aught 
of  Ai^thur's  birth  ?  " 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain 
and  said, 


THE  COMING 

Sir  king,  there  be  but  two  old  men 

that  know  : 
And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ;  and  one 
Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever 

served 

King  Cither  thro'  his  magic  art ;  and 
one 

Is  Merlin's  master  (so  they  call  him) 
Bleys, 

Who  taught   him   magic ;   but  the 

scholar  ran 
Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that 

Bleys 

Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 
wrote 

A-11  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 
In  one  great  annal-book,  where  after- 
years 

Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arthur's 
birth." 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran  re- 
plied, 

0  friend,  had  I  been  holpen  half  as 

well 

By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to-day, 
Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their 

share  of  me  ; 
But  summon  here  before  us  once  more 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere." 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him, 
the  king  said, 

1  have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by 

lesser  fowl, 
And  reason  in  the  chase  :  but  where- 
fore now 

Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  of 
war. 

Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 
Others  of  Anton?  Tell  me,  ye  your- 
selves. 

Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uther's 
son  ?  " 

And  Ulfius  and  Brastias  answer'd, 
*'Ay." 

Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his 
knights 

Knighted  by  Arthur  at  his  crowning, 
spake — 

For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word 
was  he. 

Whenever  slander  breathed  against 
the  king—  I 


OF  ARTHUR.  295 

Sir,  there  be  many  rumors  on  this 
head  : 

For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in 

their  hearts. 
Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways 

are  sweet. 
And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less 

than  man : 
And  there  -be  those  who  deem  liim 

more  than  man, 
And  dream  he  dropt  from  heaven:  but 

my  belief 
In  all  this  matter — so  ye  care  to  learn — 
Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther's 

time 

The  prince  and  warrior  Gorloi's,  he 

that  held 
Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea. 
Was  wedded  with  a  winsome  wife, 

Ygerne  : 

And  daughters  had  she  borne  him, — 

one  whereof. 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bel- 

licent. 

Hath  ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur, — but  a  son  she  had  not 
borne. 

And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  : 
But  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Gorloi's, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his 
love. 

That  Gorlois  and  King  Uther  went  to 
war: 

And  overthrown  was  Gorloi's  and  slain. 
Then  Uther  in  his  wrath  and  heat  be- 
sieged 

Ygerne  within  Tintagil,  where  her 
men. 

Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their 
walls, 

Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd 
in. 

And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  him- 
self. 

So,  compass'd  by  the  power  of  the 
king, 

Enforc'd  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her 
tears, 

And  with  a  shameful  swiftness  ;  after- 
ward. 

Not  many  moons.  King  Uther  died  him- 
self, 

Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to 
wrack. 


^96  THE  COMING 

And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the 

new  year, 
By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his 

time 

Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as 
born 

X)eliver'd  at  a  secret  postern  gate 
To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  hour  should  come ;  because 
the  lords 

Of  that  tierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of 
this, 

Wild  beasts,  and  surely  would  have 

torn  the  child 
Piecemeal    among  them,   had  they 

known ;  for  each 
Bat  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self  and 

hand, 

And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorlois.  Wherefore  Merlin  took  the 
child, 

And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old 
knight 

And  ancient  friend  of  Uther  ;  and  his 
wife 

Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear'd 

him  with  her  own  ; 
And  no  man  knew.   And  ever  since 

the  lords 

Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among 

themselves, 
So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack  : 

but  now, 

This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour 

had  come) 
Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in 

the  hall. 

Proclaiming,  '  Here  is  Uther's  heir, 

your  king,' 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  <  Away  with 

him! 

No  king  of  ours  !  a  son  of  Gorlois  he. 
Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no  king. 
Or  else  baseborn.'   Yet  Merlin  thro' 
his  craft. 

And  while  the  people  clamor'd  for  a 
king. 

Had  Arthur  crown'd ;  but  after,  the 

great  lords 
Banded,  and  so  brake  out  in  open 

war." 

Then  while  the  king  debated  with 
himself 


OF  ARTHUR. 

If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shamef  ul- 
ness. 

Or  born  the  son  of  Gorlois,  after  death, 
Or  Uther's  son,  and  born  before  his 
time. 

Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  any- 
thing 

Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to 

Cameliard, 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  the 

two  sons. 

Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Belli- 
cent ; 

Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would,  the 
king 

Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at 
meat, 

A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  summer 

seas — 

Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court :  think 

ye  this  king — 
So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  they 

be— 

Hath  body  enow  to  beat  his  foemen 
down?" 

O  king,"  she  cried,  "  and  I  will  tell 

thee  :  few, 
Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind 

with  him  ; 
For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage 

yells 

Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur 
sat 

Crown'd  on  the  dais,  and  his  warriors 
cried, 

'  Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work 
thy  will 

Who  love'  thee.'  Then  the  king  in  low 

deep  tones, 
And  simple  words  of  great  authority, 
Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his 

own  self. 

That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from 

kneeling,  some 
Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a  ghost, 
Some  flush' d,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 

who  wakes 
Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 

"  But  when  he  spake  and  cheer'dhis 
Table  Round 
With  large  divine  and  comfortable 
words 


THE  COMING 

Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee— I  be- 
held 

From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order 
flash 

A  momentary  likeness  of  the  king: 
And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the 
cross 

And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 
Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur, 
smote 

Flame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three 
rays, 

One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair 
queens, 

Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne, 

the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with 

bright 

Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his 
need. 

^ <'And  there  I  saw  mage  Merlin, 
whose  vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the 
hands 

Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

"And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake, 

Who  knows  a  subtler  magic  than  his 
own — 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 

She  gave  the  king  his  huge  cross-hilted 
sword, 

Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out :  a 
mist 

Of  incense  curl'd  about  her,  and  her 
face 

Wellnigh  was  hidden  in  the  minster 
gloom  ; 

I  But  there  was  heard  among  the  holy 
I  hymns 

I A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 
iDown  in  a  deep,  calm,  whatsoever 
I  storms 

iMay  shake  the  world,  and  when  the 
I         surface  rolls, 

■Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like 
our  Lord. 

There  likewise  I  beheld  Excalibur 
Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne,  the 
sword 

That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the 
lake. 


OF  ARTHUR.  297 

And  Arthur  row'd  across  and  took  it—* 
rich 

With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt, 
Bewildering  heart  and  eye— the  blade 
so  bright. 

That  men  are  blinded  by  it — on  one  side. 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 
world, 

'  Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  you 
shall  see, 

And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak 
yourself, 

*  Cast  me  away  ! '  And  sad  was  Ar- 
thur's face 

Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell'd 
him, 

'  Take  thou  and  strike !  the  time  to 
cast  away 

Is  yet  far  off.'  So  this  great  brand  the 
king 

Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen 
down." 

Thereat   Leodogran    rejoiced,  but 
thought 

To  sift  his  doubtings  to  the  last,  and 
ask'd, 

Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her 
face, 

The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near 
akin. 

But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 
Being  his  own  dear  sister  ;  "  and  she 
said, 

"  Daughter  of  Gorloi's  and  Ygerne  am 

And  therefore  Arthur's  sister,"  ask'd 
the  King. 

She  answer'd,  ''These  be  secret  things," 

and  sign'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let  them 

be. 

And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into 
song 

Sprang  out,  and  follow'd  by  his  flying 
hair 

Ran  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he  saw; 
But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the 
doors. 

And  there  half  heard  ;  the  same  that 

afterward 
Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking 

found  his  doom. 

And  then  the  Queen  made  answer^ 
"  What  know  I  ? 


298  THE  COMING 

For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and 
hair, 

And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I ;  and 
dark 

Was  Gorloi's,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther 
too, 

Wellnigh  to  blackness  ;  but  this  king 
is  fair 

Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother  weeping  and  I  hear  her  say, 
*  O  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty 
one, 

To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of  the 
world.'  " 

"  Ay,"  said  the  King,  "  and  hear  ye 
such  a  cry  ? 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee 
first?" 

**0  king!"  she  cried,  <'and  I  will 
tell  thee  true : 
He  found  me  first  when  yet  a  little 
maid: 

Beaten  I  had  been  for  a  little  fault 
Whereof  I  was  not  guilty ;  and  out  I 
ran 

And  flung  myself  down  on  a  bank  of 
heath, 

And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all 
therein, 

And  wept,  and  wish'd  that  I  were  dead; 
and  he— 

I  know  not  whether  of  himself  he 
came. 

Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say, 
can  walk 

tJnseen  at  pleasure— he  was  at  my  side, 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted 
my  heart, 

Aud  dried  ray  tears,  being  a  child  with 
me. 

And  many  a  time  he  came,  ^nd  ever- 
more 

As  I  grew  greater  grew  with  me  ;  and 
sad 

At  times  he  seem'd,  and  sad  with  him 
wasl. 

Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved 
him  not, 

But  sweet  again,  and  then  I  loved  him 
well . 

And  now  of  late  I  see  him  less  and 
less, 


OF  ARTHUR. 

But  those  first  days  had  golden  "hours 
for  me. 

For  then  I  surely  thought  he  would  be 
king. 

"  But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another 
tale: 

For  Bleys,  our  Merlin's  master,  as  they 
say. 

Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to 
me, 

To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his 
life. 

Shrunk  like  a  fairy  changeling  lay  the 
mage. 

And  when  I  enter'd  told  me  that  him- 
self 

And  Merlin  ever  served  about  the 
king, 

Uther,  before  he  died,  and  on  the  night 
When  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the 
two 

Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth 

to  breathe. 
Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the 

chasm 

Descending  thro'  the  dismal  night— a 
night 

In  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and 

earth  were  lost — 
Beheld,  so   high   upon   the  dreary 

deeps 

It  seem'd  in  heaven,  a  ship,  the  shape 
thereof 

A  dragon  wing'd,  and" all  from  stem  to 
stern 

Bright  with  a  shining  people  on  the 
decks. 

And  gone  as  soon  as  seen.   And  then 
the  two 

Dropt  to  the  cove,  and  watch'd  the 

great  sea  fall. 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than 

the  last. 

Till  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half 
the  deep 

And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and 
plunged 

Roaring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a 
flame  : 

And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame 

was  borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin'* 

feet, 


THE  COMING 

Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and 

cried '  The  King  ! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther  ! '  And  the 

fringe 

Of  that  great  breakei',  sweeping  up  the 
strand, 

Lash'd  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the 
word. 

And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in 
lire. 

So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed 
in  fire. 

And   presently    thereafter  follow'd 
calm, 

Free  sky  and  stars :  '  And  this  same 

child,'  he  said, 
*  Is  he  who  reigns  ;  nor  could  I  part  in 

peace 

Till  this  were  told.'   And  saying  this 
the  seer 

Went  thro'  the  strait  and  dreadful  pass 

ot  death. 
Not  ever  to  be  question'd  any  more 
Save  on  the  further  side  ;  but  when  I 

met 

Merlin,  and  ask'd  him  if  these  things 

were  truth — 
The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked 

child 

Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas — 
He  laugh'd  as  is  his  wont,  and  answer'd 
me 

In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and 
said : 

'  Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  in 
the  sky  ! 

A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by; 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he 
die. 

Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  on  the 
lea! 

And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to 
thee  ; 

And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it 
be. 

Rain,  sun,  and  rain  !  and  the  free 

blossom  blows  : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun  !  and  where  is  he 

who  knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes.' 

"  So  Merlin  riddling  anger'd  me  ;  but 
thou 


OF  ARTHUR. 

Fear  not  to  give  this  king  thine  only 
child, 

Guinevere :  so  great  bards  of  him  will 
sing 

Hereafter  :  and  dark  sayings  from  of 
old 

Ranging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds 
of  men, 

And  echo'd  by  old  folk  beside  their 
tires 

For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is 
done. 

Speak  of  the  king  ;  and  Merlin  in  our 
time 

Hath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and 
sworn 

Tho'  men  maywound  him  that  he  will 
not  die, 

But  pass,  again  to  come  ;  and  then  or 
now 

Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot, 
Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for 
their  king." 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran  re- 
joiced. 

But  musing  Shall  I  answer  yea  or 
nay  ?  " 

Doubted,  and  drowsed,  nodded  and 

slept,  and  saw, 
Dreaming,  a  slope  of  land  that  ever 

grew, 

Fiel&  after  field,  up  to  a  height,  the 
peak 

Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a  phantom 
king, 

Now  looming,  and  now  lost ;  and  on 
the  slope 

The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd 

was  driven, 
Fire  glimpsed ;  and  all  the  land  from 

roof  and  rick, 
In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a  rolling 

wind, 

Stream'd  to  the  peak,  and  mingled 
with  the  haze 

And  made  it  thicker  ;  while  the  phan- 
tom king 

Sent  out  at  times  a  voice  ;  and  here  or 
there 

Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the 

voice,  the  rest 
Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying, No  king 

of  ours, 

No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours  •  " 


300  GAEETH  AJ\ 

Till  with  a  wink  his  dream  was  changed, 
the  haze 

Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  became 
As  nothing,  and  the  king  stood  out  in 
heaven, 

Crown'd.  And  Leodogran  awoke,  and 
sent 

Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering 
yea. 

Then  Arthur  charged  his  warrior 

whom  he  loved 
And  honor' d  most.  Sir  Lancelot,  to 

ride  forth 
And  bring  the  Queen  ;— and  watch' d 

him  from  the  gates  : 
And  Lancelot  past  away  among  the 

flowers, 

(For  then  was  latter  April)  and  re- 
turn'd 

Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  with  Guin- 
evere. 

To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high 
saint, 

Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and  be- 
fore 

The  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  the 
king 

That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stain- 
less white, 

The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time. 

And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him, 
his  knights 

Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his 
joy- 

And  holy  Dubric  spreal  his  hands  and 
spake, 

^'Beign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and 

make  the  world 
Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one  with 

thee, 

And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table  Round 
Fulfil  the  boundless  purpose  of  their 
king." 

Then  at  the  marriage  feast  came  in 
from  Rome, 
The   slowly-fading  mistress  of  the 
world, 

Great  lords,  who  claim'd  the  tribute  as 
of  yore. 

But  Arthur  spake,  "Behold,  for  these 

have  sworn 
To  fight  my  wars,  and  worship  me  their 

king; 


D  LYNETTE, 

The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 
to  new  ; 

And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  f athef 
Christ, 

Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and 
old 

To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Roman 
wall. 

No  tribute  will  we  pay :  "  so  thos 

grea  lords 
Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur  strov 

with  Rome 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for  a 

space 

Were  all  one  will,  and  thro'  that 

strength  the  king 
Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under 

him. 

Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles 
overcame 

The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm 
and  reign'd. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.* 

WITH  THIS  POEM  THE  AUTHOR  CON- 
CLUDES "  THE  IDYLS  OF  THE  KING." 

The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Belli- 
cent, 

And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful 
spring 

Stared  at  the  spate.   A  slender-shafted 
Pine 

Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl'd 
away. 

"How  he  went  down,"  said  Gareth, 

"  as  a  false  knight 
Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 
Were  mine  to  use— O  senseless  catar- 
act, 

Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy— 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold 
snows, 

And  mine  is  living  blood  :  thou  dost 
His  will, 

The  Maker's,  and  not  knowest,  and  I 

that  know, 
Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good 

mother's  hall 

*  Gareth  follows  The  Coming  or 
Arthur,  and  The  Last  Tournament  pre- 
cedes Guinevere. 


GAIiETR  AN. 

Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prison'd,  and  kept  and  coax'd  and 

whistled  to — 
Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a 

child- 
Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me  ! 
A  worse  were  better ;  yet  no  worse 

would  I. 

Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put 
force 

To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 
prayer, 

Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 
In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence 
swoop 

t)own  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash 

them  dead, 
A  knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his 

will, 

To  cleanse  the  world.  Why,  Gawain, 
when  he  came 

With  Modred  hither  in  the  summer- 
time, 

Ask'd  me  to  tilt  with  hi:r,  the  j  roven 
knight, 

Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the 
judge. 

Then  I  so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he 
said, 

•  Thou  hast  half  prevail'd  against  me, 

said  so— he — 
Tho'  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  was 

mute, 

For  he  is  always  sullen  :  what  care 
I?" 

And    Gareth   went,  and  hovering 
round  her  chair 
Ask'd,    Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still 
the  child. 

Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child?" 
She  laugh'd, 
Thou  art  but  a  wild-goose  to  question 
it." 

Then,  mother,  and  ye  love  the  child," 
he  said. 

Being  a  goose  and  rather  tame  than 
wild, 

Hear  the  child's  story."    "Yea,  my 

well-beloved, 
An't  were  but  of  the  goose  and  golden 

eggs." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes. 


)  LYNETTE.  301 

Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg 
of  mine 

Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can  lay; 
For  this  an  Eagle,  a  royal  Eagle,  laid 
Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a 
palm 

As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of 
Hours. 

And  there  was  ever  haunting  round  the 
palm 

A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often  saw 
The  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft,  and 
thought 

'  An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand 
upon  it. 

Then  were  1  wealthier  than  a  leash  of 
kings.' 

But  ever  when  he  reach'd  a  hand  to 
climb. 

One,  that  had  loved  him  from  his  child- 
hood, caught 

And  stay'd  him,  *  Climb  not  lest  thou 
break  thy  neck, 

I  charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  the 

Sweet  mother,  neither  clomb,  nor  brake 
his  neck. 

But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for 
it. 

And  past  away." 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk'd  him- 
self and  climb'd, 
And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure 
to  him." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 

''Gold?  said  I  gold?— ay,  then,  why 

he,  or  she, 
Or  whosoe'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured— /ia(i  the  thing  I  spake 

of  been 

Mere  gold— but  this  was  all  of  that  true 
steel, 

Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Excal- 
ibur, 

And  lightnings  played  about  it  in  the 
storm. 

And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried  at 
it. 

And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in 
the  nest. 

That  sent  him  from  his  senses  :  let  me 
go." 


302  GAPxETH  AJS 

Then  Bellicentbemoan'd  herself  and 
said, 

"  Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneli- 
ness ? 

Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the 
hearth 

Lies  like  a  log,  and  all  but  smoulder' d 
out! 

For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the  King 
He  fought  against  him  in  the  Baron's 
war, 

And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  terri- . 
tory, 

His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now  lies 
there 

A  yet  warm-corpse,  and  yet  unburi- 
able, 

Iso  more ;  nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor 

speaks,  nor  knows. 
And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur's 

hall. 

Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full 
love  ; 

I  feel  for  thee,  nor  wortLy  such  a  love : 
Stay  therefore  thou  ;  red  uerries  charm 
the  bird, 

And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts, 
the  wars, 

Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor 
pang 

Of  wrench' d  or  broken  limb — an  often 
chance 

In  those  brain-stunning  shocks,  and 

tourney-falls, 
Frights  to  my  heart ;  but  stay  :  follow 

the  deer 

By  these  tall  firs  and  our  fast-falling 
burns ; 

So  make  thy  manhood  mightier  day  by 
day  ; 

Sweet  is  the  chase  :  and  I  will  seek  thee 

out  r 
Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to 

grace 

Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my 

prone  year. 
Till  falling  into  Lot's  forgetfulness 
I  know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  anytJiing. 
Stay,  my  best  son  !  'ye  are  yet  more  boy 

than  man." 

Then  Gareth,  "  An  ye  hold  me  yet  for 
child. 

Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the 
child. 


D  LYNETTE, 

For,  mother,  there  was  once  a  King, 
like  ours  ; 

The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and  mar- 
riageable, 

Ask'd  for  a  bride  ;  and  thereupon  the 
King 

Set  two  before  him.    One  was  fair, 

strong,  arm'd — 
But  to  be  won  by  force— and  many  men 
Desired  her ;  one,  good  lack,  no  man 

desired, 

And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the 
King  : 

That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he 
needs 

Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man  de- 
sired, 

A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  so 
vile, 

That  evermore  she  long'd  to  hide  her- 
self. 

Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to  eye- 
Yea— some  she  cleavod  to,  but  they 

died  of  her. 
And  one — they  calFd  her  Fame  ;  and 

one,  O  Mother i 
How  can  you  keep  nio  tether'd  to  you — 

Shame  ! 

Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I 
do. 

Follow  the  deer  ?  follow  the  Christ, 
the  King, 

Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong, 

follow  the  King- 
Else,  wherefore  born  ?  " 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
"Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who 

deem  him  not, 
Or  will  not  deem  him,  wholly  proven 

King— 

Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I  knew  him 
King, 

When  I  was  frequent  with  him  in  my 
youth. 

And  heard  him  Kingly  speak,  and 

doubted  him 
No  more  than  he,  himself  ;  but  felt 

him  mine, 
Of  closest  kin  to  me  :  yet— wilt  thou 

leave 

Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk 
thine  all. 

Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven 
King  ? 


3 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


303 


Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  round 
his  birth 

Hath  lifted  but  a  little.  Stay,  sweet 
son." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  quickly,  "  Not 
an  hour, 

So  that  ye  yield  me— I  will  walk  thro' 
tire. 

Mother,  to  gain  it— your  full  leave  to 
go. 

Not  proven,  who  swept  the  dust  of 

ruin'd  Rome 
From  off  the  threshold  of  the  realm, 

and  crush' d 
The  Idolaters,  and  made  the  people 

free  ? 

Who  should  be  King  save  him  who 
makes  us  free?" 

So  when  the  Queen,  who  long  had 
sought  in  vain 
To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which 
he  grew. 

Found  her  son's  will  unwaveringly 
one, 

She  answer'd  craftily,  *'  Will  ye  walk 

thro'  fire  ? 
Who  walks  thro'  fire  will  hardly  heed 

the  smoke. 
Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must  :  only  one 

proof, 

Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 
knight, 

Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me. 
Thy  mother, — I  demand." 

And  Gareth  cried, 
"  A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay— quick  !  the  proof  to  prove  me  to 
the  quick  ! " 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother,  look- 
ing at  him, 

**  Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to 
Arthur's  hall. 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats 
and  drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen- 
knaves, 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across 
the  bar. 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any 
one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth 
and  a  day* " 


For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when 
her  son 

Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 
Low  down  thro'  villain  kitchen- vassal- 
age. 

Her  own  true  Gareth  was  tooprincely- 
•  proud 

To  pass  thereby  ;  so  should  he  rest 
with  her. 

Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of 
arms. 

Silent  a  while  was  Gareth,  then 
replied, 

"  The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in 

bOUl, 

And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.  Thy  son 
am  I, 

And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must 
obey. 

I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will; 
For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire 
myself 

To  serve  with  scullions  and  with  kitch^. 

en-knaves  ; 
Nor  tell  my  name  to  any  —no,  not  the 

King." 

Gareth  awhile  linger'd    The  mother's 

Full  of' the  wistful  fear  that  he  would 
go, 

And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe'er 

he  turn'd, 
Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  an 

hour, 

When  waken'd  by  the  wind  which  with 
full  voice 

Swept  bellowing  thro'  the  darkness  on 
to  dawn. 

He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling  two 
That  still  had  tended  on  him  from  his 
birth, 

Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him, 
went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of  the 
soil. 

Southward  they  set  their  faces.  The 
birds  made 

Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid- 
air. 

The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken'd 

into  green. 
And  the  live  green  had  kindled  into 

flowers. 

For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE. 


So,  whsTi  their  feet  were  planted  on 
the  plain 

That  broaden'd  toward  the  base  of 
Camelot, 

Far  olf  they  saw  the  silver  misty  morn 
Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  Royal 
mount, 

That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the 
field. 

At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city 
flash' d ; 

At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half- 
way down 

Prick' d  thro'  the  mist  ;  at  times  the 
great  gate  shone 

Only,  that  open'd  on  the  field  below  : 

Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  dis ap- 
pear'd. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth 

were  amazed, 
One  crying, Let  us  go  no  farther,  lord. 
Here  is  a  city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By  fairy  Kings."   The  second  echo'd 

him, 

**  Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise 

men  at  home 
To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not 

the  King, 

But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland, 
Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by  sor- 
cery 

And  Merlin's  glamour."    Then  the 
first  again. 
Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere. 

But  all  a  vision." 

Gareth  answer' d  them 

With  laughter,  swearing  he  had  gla- 
mour enow 

In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth 
and  hopes. 

To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian 
sea  ; 

So  push'd  them  all  unwilling  toward 
thfe  gate. 

And  there  was  no  gate  like  it  under 
heaven  ; 

For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which 

was  lined 
And    rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting 

wave, 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood  :  all  her 
dress 

Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flowing 
away  : 


But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly 
arms 

Stretch' d  under  all  the  cornice  and  up- 
held : 

And  drops  of  water  fell  from  either 
hand  ; 

And  down  from  one  a  sword  was  hung, 
from  one 

A  censer,  either  worn  with  wind  and 
storm  ; 

And  o'er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred 
fish  ; 

And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and 
right, 

Were  Arthur's  wars  in  weird  devices 
done, 

New  things  and  old  co-twisted,  as  if 
Time 

Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that 
men 

Were  giddy  gazing  there  ;  and  over  all 
High  on  the  top  were  those  three 

Queens,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 

need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long  a 


Stared  at  the  figures,  that  at  last  it 
seem'd 

The  dragon-boughts  and  elvish  emblem- 
ings 

Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine  and  curl: 

they  call'd 
To  Gareth,  "  Lord,  the  gateway  is 

alive." 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt  his 
eyes 

So  long,  that  ev'n  to  him  they  seem'd 
to  move. 

Out  of  the  city  a  blast  of  music  peal'd. 
Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three, 
to  whom 

From  out  thereunder  came  an  ancient 
man, 

Long-bearded,  saying,  "  Who  be  ye, 
my  sons  ?  " 
Then  Gareth,    We  be  tillers  of  the 
soil. 

Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to 
see 

The  glories  of  our  King  :  but  thes©,  my 
men, 

(.Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the 
mist,) 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


305 


Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or 
come 

From  fairyland  ;  and  whether  this  be 
built 

By  magic,  and  by  fairy  Kings  and 
Queens ; 

Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all, 
Or  all  a  vision  :  and  this  music  now 
Hath  scared  them  both,  but  tell  thou 
these  the  truth." 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer 
playing  on  him 
And  saying,  "  Son,  I  have  seen  the  good 
ship  sail 

Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in 

the  heavens, 
And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air  : 
And  here  is  truth  ;  but  an  it  please 

thee  not, 

Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told 
it  me. 

For  truly,  as  thou  sayest,  a  Fairy  King 
And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city, 
son  ; 

They  came  from  out  a  sacred  mountain 
cleft 

Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp  in 
hand. 

And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps. 
And  as  thou  sayest  it  is  enchanted,  son, 
For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 
Saving  the  King  ;  tho'  some  there  be 
that  hold 

The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real  : 
Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so  thou 
pass 

Beneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou 
become 

A  thrall  to  his  enchantments,  for  the 
King 

Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a 
shame 

A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet  the 
which 

No  man  can  keep  ;  but,  so  thou  dread 
to  swear, 

Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but 
abide 

Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field. 
For,  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city 
is  built 

To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all, 
And  therefore  built  forever." 

20 


Gareth  spake 
Anger'd,    Old  Master,  reverence  thine 

own  beard 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth,  and 

seems 

Wellnigh  as  long  as  thou  art  statured 
tall  ! 

Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that 

hath  been 
To  thee  fair-spoken  ?  " 

But  the  Seer  replied, 
Know  ye  not  then  the  Kiddling  of 

the  Bards  ? 
*  Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation, 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion  ?  ' 
1  mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest 

me. 

And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not 
who 

Thou  seemest,  but  I  know  thee  who 
thou  art. 

And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the 
King, 

Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any 
lie." 

Unmockingly   the   mocker  ending 
here 

Turn'd  to  the  right,  and  past  along  the 
plain  ; 

Whom  Gareth  looking  after  said,  *'My 
men , 

Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enterprise. 
Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she,  nor 
I  : 

Well,  we  will  make  amends." 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laugh'd,  then  enter'd 

with  his  twain 
Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces, 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the 

work 

Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days  in 
stone  ; 

Which  Merlin's  hand,  the  Mage  at  Ar- 
thur's court. 

Knowing  all  arts,  had  touch'd,  and 
everywhere 

At  Arthur's  ordinance,tipt  with  lessen- 
ing peak 

And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire 

"  to  heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon  a  knight  would 


306  GARETH  AN 

Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall  :  liis 
arms 

Clash'd  ;  and  tlie  sound  was  good  to 

Gareth's  ea::, 
A.nd  out  of  bower  and  casement  shyly 

glanced 

Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars 
of  love  ; 

4nd  all  about  a  healthful  people  stept 
^s  in  the  presence  of  a  gracious  king. 

Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending 
heard 

A  voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and 
beheld 

Far  over  heads  in  that  long- vaulted 
hall 

The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the 
King 

Throned,  and  delivering  doom  —  and 

look'd  no  more — 
But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering 

in  his  ears, 
And  thought,     For  this  half -shadow 

of  a  lie 

The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when 
I  speak." 

Yet  pressing  on,  tho'  all  in  fear  to  find 
Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 
Of  those  tall    knights,  that  ranged 

about  the  throne. 
Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King, 

with  pure 
Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory, 
And  glory  gain'd,and  evermore  to  gain. 

Then  came  a  widow  crying  to  the 
King, 

A  boon,    Sir  King  !     Thy  father, 
Uther,  reft 
From  my  dead  lord  a  field  with  vio- 
lence ; 

For  howsoe'er  at  first  he  proffer'd  gold. 
Yet,  for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our 
eyes, 

We  yielded  not ;  and  then  he  reft  us 
of  it 

Perforce,  and  left  us  neither  gold  nor 
field." 

Said  Arthur,    Whether  would  ye  ? 
gold  or  field  ?" 
To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  Nay, 
my  lord, 


D  LYNETTE. 

The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  husband's 
eye." 

And  Arthur,      Have  thy  pleasant 
field  again, 
And  thrice  the  gold  for  Uther's  use 
thereof, 

According  to  the  years.   No  boon  is 
here, 

But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven  true. 
Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his 

father  did 
Would  shape  himself  a  right  !  " 

And  while  she  past. 
Came  yet  another  widow  crying  to  him 
A  boon,  Sir  King  !   Thine  enemy, 
King,  am  I. 
With  thine  own  hand  thou  slewest  my 

dear  lord, 
A  knight  of  Uther,  in  the  Barons'  war, 
When  l^ot  and  many  another  rose  and 
fought 

Against  thee,  saying  thou  wert  basely 
born. 

I  held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask 

thee  aught. 
Yet  lo  !  my  husband's  brother  had  my 

son 

Thrall'd  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved 

him  dead  ; 
And  standetli  seized  of  that  inheritance 
Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire  hast 

left  the  son. 
So  tho'  I  scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for  hate, 
Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle 

for  me, 

Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for 
my  son." 

Then  strode  a  good  knight  forward, 
crying  to  him, 
'*  A  boon.  Sir  King  !   I  am  her  kins- 
man, I. 

Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay 

the  man." 
Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 

and  cried, 
A  boon,  Sir  King  !  ev'n  that  thou 

grant  her  none, 
This  railer,  that  hath  mock'd  thee  in 

full  hail- 
None  ;  or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve 

and  gag," 

But  Arthur  .  "  We  sit,  King,  to  help 
the  wrong'd 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE. 
The  woman  loves 


Thro'  all  our  realm 
her  lord. 

Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves 

and  hates  ! 
The  kings  of  old  had  doom'd  thee  to 

the  flames, 
Aurelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged 

thee  dead, 
And  Uther  slit  thy  tongue  :  but  get 

thee  hence— 
Lest  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of 

old 

Return  upon  me  !    Thou  that  art  her 
kin. 

Go  likewise ;  lay  him  low  and  slay  him 
not, 

But  bring  him  here,  that  I  may  judge 
the  right, 

According  to  the  justice  of  the  King  : 
Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless 
King 

Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man 
shall  die." 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of 
Mark, 

A  name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 
The  Cornish  king.   In  either  hand  he 
bore 

What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-oif  as 
shines 

A  field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 
Between  two  showers,  a  cloth  of  palest 
gold. 

Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne, 

and  knelt, 
Delivering,  that  his  Lord,  the  vassal 

king. 

Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot ; 
For  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his 
grace 

Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Tristram, 
knight. 

And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater 
state, 

Being  a  king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
Would  yield  him  this  large  honor  all 

the  more ; 
So  pray'd  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth 

of  gold, 

In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth, 
to  rend 

In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 


SOT 

The 


An  oak-tree  smoulder' d  there, 

goodly  knight ! 
What !  shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand 

among  these  ?  " 
For,  midway  down  the  side  of  that 
long  hall 

A  stately  pile,— whereof  along  the 
front. 

Some  blazon'd.  some  but  carven,  and 

some  blank. 
There  ran  a  treble  range  of  stony 

shields, — 

Rose,  and  high-arching  overbrow'd  the 
hearth. 

And  under  every  shield  a  knight  was 
named  : 

For  this  was  Arthur's  custom  in  his 
hall; 

When  some  good  night  had  done  one 

noble  deed. 
His  arms  were  carven  only  ;  but  if 

twain 

His  arms  were  blazon'd  also ;  but  if 
none 

The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without 
a  sign 

Saving  the  name  beneath  ;  and  Gareth 
saw 

The  shield  of  Gawain  blazon'd  rich 

and  bright, 
And  Modred's  blank  as  death;  and 

Arthur  cried 
To  rend  the  cloth  and  cast  it  on  the 

hearth. 

"  More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of 
his  crown 

Than  make  him  knight  because  men 
call  him  king. 

The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we  stay'd 
their  hands 

From  war  among  themselves,  but  left 
them  kings ; 

Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merci- 
ful, 

Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers, 

them  we  enroll'd 
Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our 

hall. 

But  Mark  hath  tarnish'd  the  great 

name  of  king. 
As  Mark  would  sully  the  low  state  of 

churl  : 

And,  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of 
gold, 


308 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE. 


Return,  and  meet,  and  hold  him  from 
our  eyes, 

Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of 
lead, 

Silen'ced  forever — craven — a  man  of 
plots 

Craft,  poisonous  counsels,  wayside  am- 
bushings — 

No  fault  of  thine  :  let  Kay,  the  senes- 
chal, 

Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  satis- 
fied- 
Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the 
hand  be  seen  !  " 

And  many  another  suppliant  crying 
came 

With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by  beast 
and  man, 

And  evermore  a  knight  would  ride 
away. 

Last  Gareth  leaning   both  hands 
heavily 

Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain, 
his  men, 

Approach'd  between  them  toward  the 
King,  and  ask'd, 

*'  A  boon,  Sir  King  (his  voice  was  all 
ashamed), 

"For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hun- 
ger worn 

t  seem — leaning  on  these?  grant  me 
to  serve 

For  meat  and  drink  among  thy  kitchen- 
knaves 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  nor  seek 

my  name. 
Hereafter  I  will  fight." 

To  him  the  King, 
'^^  A  goodly  youth  and  worth  a  goodlier 
boon  ! 

But  an,  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then 

must  Kay, 
The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks, 

be  thine." 

He  rose  and  past ;  then  Kay,  a  man 
of  mien 

Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels  it- 
self 

Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

* '  Lo  ye  now  ! 
This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some 
Abbey,  where, 


God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewia 
enow, 

However  that  might  chance  !  but  an 
he  work, 

Like  any  pigeon  will  I  cram  his  crop, 
And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any 
hog." 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near,  "Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound  thou  knowest,  and  gray, 

and  all  the  hounds  ; 
A  horse  thou  knowest,  a  man  thou 

dost  not  know  : 
Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair 

and  fine, 

High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine, 

and  hands 
Large,  fair  and  fine  !— Some  young 

lad's  mystery — 
But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king's  hall, 

the  boy 

Is  noble-natured.  Treat  him  with  all 
grace, 

Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy 
judging  of  him." 

Then  Kay,  What  murmurest  thou 
of  mystery  ? 

Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the 
King's  dish? 

Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like  :  mys- 
tery ! 

Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had 
ask'd 

For  horse  and  armor :  fair  and  fine, 
forsooth  ! 

Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands  ?  but  see 
thou  to  it 

That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot, 

some  fine  day 
Undo  thee  not— and  leave  my  man  to 

me." 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 
The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen  vassalage  ; 
Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the 
door, 

And  couch' d  at  night  with  grimy 
kitchen-knaves. 

And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleas- 
antly, 

But  Kay  the  seneschal  who  loved  him 
not 

Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and  ^ 
labor  him 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE. 


309 


Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  and 
set 

To  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or 

hew  wood, 
Or  grosser  tasks  ;  and  Gareth  bow'd 

himself 

"With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and 
wrought 

A 11  kind  of  service  with  a  noble  ease 
That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing 
it. 

And  when  the  thralls  had  talk  among 

themselves. 
And  one  would  praise  the  love  that 

linkt  the  King 
And  Lancelot— how  the  King  had  saved 

his  life 

In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the 
King's — 

For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tourna- 
ment, 

But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battle- 
field— 

Gareth  was  glad.  Or  if  some  other 
told. 

How  once  the  wandering  forester  at 
dawn. 

Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy  seas, 
On  Caer-Eryri's   highest  found  the 
King, 

A  naked  babe,  of  whom  the  Prophet 
spake, 

He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 
He  passes  and  is  heal'd  and  cannot 
die  " — 

Gareth  was  glad.   But  if  their  talk 

were  foul, 
Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any 

lark. 

Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so 
loud 

That  first  they  mock'd,  but  after,  rev- 
erenced him. 

Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 

Of  knights,  who  sliced  a  red  life-bub- 
bling way 

Thro'  twenty  folds  of  twisted  dragon, 
held 

All  in  a  gap-mouth'd  circle  his  good 
mates 

Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands, 
Charm'd;  till  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 

would  come 
Blustering  upon  them,  like  a  sudden 

wind 


Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them 
all  apart. 

Or  when  the  thralls  had  sport  among 

themselves, 
So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery, 
He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or 

stone, 

Was  counted  best;  and  if  there  chanced 
a  joust. 

So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to  go, 
Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  ae 

saw  the  knights 
Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring 
wave. 

And  the  spear  spring,  and  good  horse 

reel,  the  boy 
Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a  month  he  wrought  among 

the  thralls  ; 
But  in  the  weeks  that  follow'd,  the 

good  Queen, 
Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him 

swear, 

And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle, 
sent, 

Between  the  increscent  and  decresent 
moon. 

Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from 
his  vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a  squire 
of  Lot 

With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney 
once, 

When   both  were  children,  and  in 

lonely  haunts 
Would  scratch  a  ragged  oval  on  the 

sand, 

And  each  at  either  dash  from  either 
end — 

Shame  never  made  girl-  redder  than 

Gareth  joy. 
He  laugh' d  ;  he  sprang.      Out  of  the 

smoke,  at  once 
I  leap  from  Satan's  foot  to  Peter's 

knee — 

These  news  be  mine,  none  other's — 

nay,  the  King's — 
Descend  into  the  city:"  whereon  he 

sought 

The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told 
him  alU 

I  have  stagger' d  thy  strong  Gawain 
in  a  tilt 


310 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE, 


For  pastime :  yea,  he  Baid  it :  joust 
can  I. 

Make  me  thy  knight — in  secret !  let 
my  name 

Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest, 

I  spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes." 

Here  the  King's  calm  eye 
Fell  on,  and  check'd,  and  made  him 

flush,  and  bow 
Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer'd 
him, 

**  Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know 

thee  here, 
And  sent  her  wish  that  I  would  yield 

thee  thine. 
Make  thee  my  knight  ?  my  knights  are 

sworn  to  vows 
Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness, 
And,  loving,  utter  f aithf uhiess  in  love, 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King." 

Then  Gareth,  lightly  springing  from 

his  knees, 
My  King,  for  hardihood  I  can  promise 

thee. 

For  uttermost  obedience  make  de- 
mand 

Of  whom  ye  gavfe  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 
No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and 
drinks ! 

And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I  love  not 

yet, 

But  love  I  shall,  God  willing." 

And  the  King — 
Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret  ?  yea, 
but  he. 

Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest 
man, 

And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must 
know." 

"Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let 
Lancelot  know. 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest " 

And  the  King— 
But  wherefore  would  ye  men  should 
wonder  at  you ! 
Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their 
King, 

A'ld  the  deed's  sake  my  knighthood 

do  the  deed. 
Than  to  be  noised  of." 


Merrily  Gareth  ask'd, 
Have  I  not  eam'd  my  cake  in  baking 
of  it? 

Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my 
name  ! 

My  deeds  will  speak  :  it  is  but  for  a 
day." 

So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's 
arm 

Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half-un^ 
willingly 

Loving  his  lusty  youthhood  yielded  to 
him. 

Then,    after    summoning  Lancelot 
privily, 

'^I  have  given  him  the  first  quest :  he 

is  not  proven. 
Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this 

in  hall, 

Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far 
away. 

Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 
Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta'en 
nor  slain." 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into 
the  hall 

A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 
May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple- 
blossom. 

Hawk-eyes  ;  and  lightly  was  her  slen- 
der nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower  ; 
She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and 
cried, 

*^  O  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the  foe 
without. 

See  to  the  foe  within !  bridge,  ford, 
beset 

By  bandits,  every  one  that  owns  a 
tower 

The  Lord  for  half  a  league.   Why  sit 

ye  there  ? 

Rest  would  I  not,  Sir  King,  an  I  were 
king, 

Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as 
free 

From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar- 
cloth 

From  that  blest  blood  it  is  a  sin  to 
spill." 

"  Comfort  thyself,"  said  Arthur,  **  I 
nor  mine 

Rest :  so  my  knighthood  keep  the 
vows  they  swore. 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE, 


311 


Tlie  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm 
shall  be 

Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this 
hall. 

What  is  thy  name  ?  thy  need  ?  " 

My  name  ?  "  she  said — 
"  Lynette  my  name  ;  noble  ;  my  need, 
a  knight 

To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 
A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands, 
And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than 
myself. 

She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous  :  a  river 
Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living- 
place  ; 

And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and 

three  knights 
Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a 

fourth 

And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds 

her  stay'd 
In  her  own  castle  and  so  besieges  her 
To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed 

with  him  : 
And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou 

send 

To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief 
man 

Sir  Lancelot  whom  he  trusts  to  over- 
throw. 

Then  wed,  with  glory ;  but  she  will 
not  wed 

Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a  holy  life. 
Now  therefore  have  I  come  for  Lance- 
lot." 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth 
ask'd. 

Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to 
crush 

All  wrongers  of  the  Realm.   But  say, 

these  four, 
Who  he  they?   What  the  fashion  of 

the  men?" 

**They  he  of  foolish  fashion,  O  Sir 
King, 

The  fashion  of  that  old  knight-errantry 
Who  ride  abroad  and  do  but  what  they 
will ; 

Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment. 
Such  as  have  nor  law  nor  king ;  and 

three  of  these 
Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves 
the  Day, 


Morning-Star,    and    Noon-Sun,  and 

Evening-Star, 
Being  strong  fools  ;  and  never  a  whit 

more  wise 
The  fourth,  who  alway  rideth  arm'd 

in  black, 

A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  sav- 
agery. 

He  names  himself  the  Night  and  of- 

tener  Death. 
And  wears  a  helmtt  mounted  with  a 

skull 

And  bears  a  skeleton  figured  on  his 
arms, 

To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape 
the  three 

Slain  by  himself  shall  enter  endless 
night. 

And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty 
men. 

And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lance- 
lot." 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call'd  from  where 
he  rose, 

A  head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the 
throng, 

"  A  boon.  Sir  King — this  quest !  *'  then 

— for  he  mark'd 
Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a  wounded 

bull— 

"  Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and 
drinks  am  I, 

And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 

Thy  promise,  King,"  and  Arthur  glan- 
cing at  him. 

Brought  down  a  momentary  brow, 
"  Rough, sudden. 

And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight — 

Go  therefore,"  and  all  hearers  were 
amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel's  forehead  shame, 
pride,  wrath. 
Slew  the  May- white  :  she  lifted  either 
arm, 

"  Fie  on  thee.  King  !  I  ask'd  for  thy 
chief  knight, 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen- 
knave." 

Then  ere  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her, 
turn'd. 

Fled  down  the  lane  of  accees  to  the 
King, 


312 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE. 


Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street, 
and  past 

The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  with- 
out, beside 
The   field   of    tourney,  murmming 
kitchen-knave." 

Now  two  great  entries  open'd  from 
the  hall. 

At  one  end  one,  that  gave  upon  a  range 
Of  level  pavement  where  the  King 

would  pace 
At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and  wood. 
And  down  from  this  a  lordly  stairway 

sloped 

Till  lost  in  blowing  trees  and  tops  of 
towers. 

And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past  the 
King. 

But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth,  and 
rose 

High  that  the  highest-crested  helm 
could  ride 

Therethro'  nor  graze  :  and  by  tjiis  en- 
try fled 

The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to 
this 

Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without  the 
door 

King  Arthur's  gift,  the  worth  of  half  a 
town, 

A  warhorse  of  the  best,  and  near  it  stood 
The  two  that  out  of  north  had  follow'd 
him  : 

This  bare  a  maiden  shield,  a  casque  ; 
that  held 

The  horse,  the  spear  ;  whereat  Sir  Ga- 
reth loosed 

A  cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone  to 
heel, 

A  cloth  of  roughest  web,  and  cast  it 
down. 

And  from  it  like  a  f  uel-smother'd  fire, 
That  lookt  half -dead,  brake  bright, 

and  flash'd  as  those 
Dull-coated  things,  that  making  slide 

apart 

Their  dusk-wing  cases,  all  beneath 
^         there  burns 

A  jewel'd  harness,  ere  they  pass  and 
fly. 

So  Gareth  ere  he  parted  flash'd  in 
arms. 

Then  while  he  donn'd  the  helm,  and 
took  the  shield 


And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  aspear, 

of  grain 

Storm-strengthen'd  on  a  windy  site, 
and  tipt 

With   trenchant    steel,  around  him 

slowly  prest 
The  people,  and  from  out  of  kitchen 

rame 

The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who 

had  work'd 
Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could 

but  love, 

Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps 
and  cried, 

"  God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fel- 
lowship !  " 

And  on  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth 
rode 

Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  with, 
out  the  gate. 

So  Gareth  past  with  joy;  but  as  the 
cur 

Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with,  ere 
his  cause 

Be  cool'd  by  fighting,  follows,  being 
named. 

His  owner,  but  remembers  all,  and 
growls 

Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the 
door 

Mutter' d  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he 
used 

To  harry  and  hustle. 

"  Bound  upon  a  quest 
With  horse  and  arms — the  King  hath 

past  his  time — 
My  scullion  knave  !   Thralls  to  your 

work  again, 
For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle  mine! 
Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve  in 

East? 

Begone  !  —  my  knave  !  —  belike  and 

like  enow 
Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his 

youth 

So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  h 
prime  — 

Crazed  !  How  the  villain  lifted  up  his 
voice, 

Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a  kitchen- 
knave. 

Tut :  he  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with 
me, 


GARE  TH  AND  LYNETTE. 


311 


Till  peacock'd  up  with  Lancelot's  no- 
ticing. 

Well— 1  will  after  my  loud  knave,  and 
learn 

Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master 
yet. 

Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my 
lance 

Hold,  by  God's  grace,  he  shall  into  the 
mire — 

Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his 

craze, 
Into  the  smoke  again." 

But  Lancelot  e*aid, 
"  Kay,  wherefore  will  ye  go  against 

the  King, 

For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail, 
But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in 
thee  ? 

Abide  :  take  counsel ;  for  this  lad  is 
great 

And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance 

and  sword." 
*'  Tut,  tell  not  me,"  said  Kay,  "  ye  are 

overfine 

To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish  cour- 
tesies." 

Then  mounted,  on  thro'  silent  faces 
rode 

Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond 
the  gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  lingering 
yet 

Mutter'd  the  damsel,  "  Wherefore  did 
the  King 

Scorn  me  ?  for,  were  Sir  Lancelot  lackt, 
at  least 

He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of 
those 

Who  tilt  for  lady's  love  and  glory  here. 
Rather  than  —  O  sweet  heaven  ?  O  fie 

upon  him  — 
His  kitchen-knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 
(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier 

than  he) 

Shining  in  arms,     Damsel,  the  quest 
is  mine. 

Lead,  and  I  follow."   She  thereat,  as 
one 

That  smells  a  foul-flesh' d  agaric  in  the 
holt, 

And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  woodland 
thing. 


Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender 

nose 

With  petulant  thumb  and  finger  shrill- 
ing, "  Hence  ! 

Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen- 
grease. 

And   look  who  comes  behind,"  for 
there  was  Kay. 
Knowest  thou  not  me  ?  thy  master? 
1  am  Kay. 
We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth." 

And  Gareth  to  him, 
"  Master  no  more  !  too  well  I  know 

thee,  ay — 
The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur's 

hall." 

"  Have  at  thee  then,"  said  Kay  :  they 

sbock'd,  and  Kay 
Fell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried 

again, 

Lead,  and  I  follow."  and  fas^  away 
she  fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to 

fly 

Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good 
horse 

Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the 
beat. 

Perforce  she  stay'd,  and  overtaken 
spoke. 

**  What  doest  thou,  scullion,  in  my 
fellowship  ? 
Deem'st  thou  that  I  accept  thee  aught 
the  more 

Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some  de- 
vice 

Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappi- 
ness, 

Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy 

master— thou  !— 
Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon  ! 

— tell  me 

Thou  Fmellest  all  of  kitchen  as  before." 

"  Damsel,"  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  gen- 
tly, "  say 

Whate'er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe'er  ya 
say, 

I  leave  not  till  I  finish  this  fair  quest, 
Or  die  therefor." 

Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it  ? 
Sweet  lord,  how  like  a  noble  knight  ho 
talks  ! 


314  GARETH 

The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the 

manner  of  it. 
But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met 

with,  knave. 
And  then  by  such  a  one  that  thou  for 

all 

The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 
Shall  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the 
face." 

**  I  shall  assay,"  said  Gareth  with  a 
smile 

That  madden'd  her,  and  away  she 

flash' d  again 
Down  the  long  avenues  of  a  boundless 

wood, 

And  Gareth  following  was  again  be- 
knaved. 

'*  Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I  have  miss'd 
the  only  way 
Where  Arthur's  men  are  set  along  the 
wood  ; 

The  wood  is  nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as 
leaves : 

If  both  be  slain,  I  am  rid  of  thee  ;  but 
yet^ 

Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit  of 
thine  ? 

Fight,  an  thou  canst :  I  have  miss'd 
the  only  way." 

So  till  the  dusk  that  follow'd  even- 
song 

Rode  on  the  two,  re  viler  and  reviled  : 
Then  aftef  one  long  slope  was  mounted, 
saw, 

Bowl-shaped,  thro'  tops  of  many  thou- 
sand pines 
A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To  westward— in  the  deeps  whereof  a 
mere, 

Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle-owl, 
Under  the  half-dead  sunset  glared;  and 
cries 

Ascended,  and  there  brake  a  serving- 
man 

Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood,  and 
crying, 

*<  They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him 

in  the  mere." 
Then  Gareth,  "Bound  am  I  to  right 

the  wrong' d. 
But  straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with 

thee." 

And  when  the  damsel  spake  contempt- 
uously. 


D  LYNETTE, 

"  Lead  and  I  follow,"  Gareth  cried 
again, 

"  Follow,  I  lead  !  "  so  down  among  the 
pines 

He  plunged  ;  and  there,  blackshadow'd 

nigh  the  mere. 
And  mia-thigh-deep  in  bulinishes  and 

reed, 

Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a  seventh  along, 
A  stone  about  his  neck,  to  drown  Lim 
in  it. 

Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but 
three 

Fled  thro'  the  pines;  and  Gareth  loosed 
the  stone 

From  oft  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere 
beside 

Tumbled  it;  oilily  bubbled  up  the 
mere. 

Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on 
free  feet 

Set  him,  a  stalwart  Baron,  Arthur's 
friend. 

Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these 

caitiff  rogues 
Had  wreak'd  themselves  on  me  ;  good 

cause  is  theirs 
To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever 

been 

To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  ver- 
min here 

Drown  him,  and  with  a  stone  about  his 
neck ; 

And  under  this  wan  water  many  of 
them 

Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  the 
stone, 

And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a  grimly 
light 

Dance  on  the  mere.  Good  now,  ye 
have  saved  a  life 

Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of 
this  wood. 

And  fain  would  I  reward  thee  worship- 
fully. 

What  guerdon  will  ye  ?  " 

Gareth  sharply  spake, 
"  None  !  for  the  deed's  sake  have  \ 

done  the  deed, 
In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 
But  will  ye  yield  this  damsel  harbon 

age?" 

Whereat  the  Baron  saying,    I  w«^il 
believe 


Ye  be  of  Arthur's  Table,"  a  light  laugh 
Broke  from  Lynette,     Ay,  truly  of  a 
truth, 

And  in  a  sort,  being  Arthur's  kitchen- 
knave  !  — 

But  deem  not  I  accept  thee  aught  the 
more, 

Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy 
spit 

Down  on  a  rout  of  craven  foresters, 
A  thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter'd 
them. 

Nay — for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen 
still. 

But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harbor- 
age, 
Well." 

So  she  spake.   A  league  beyond  the 
wood, 

All  in  a  full-fair  manor  and  a  rich, 
His  towers  where  that  day  a  feast  had 
been 

Held  in  high  hall,  and  many  a  viand 
left, 

And  many  a  costly  cate,  received  the 
three. 

And  there  they  placed  a  peacock  in  his 
pride 

Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron  set 
Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she  rose. 

"  Meseems,  that  here  is  much  dis- 
courtesy. 

Setting  this  knave,  Lord  Baron,  at  my 
side. 

Hear  me  —  this  morn  I  stood  in  Ar- 
thur's hall. 

And  pray'd  the  King  would  grant  me 
Lancelot 

To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and 
Night — 

The  last  a  monster  unsubduable 
Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I  call'd  — 
Suddenly  bawls  this  f  rontless  kitchen- 
knave, 

*  The  quest  is  mine  ;  thy  kitchen-knave 

am  I, 

And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 
am  I.' 

Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad  re- 
plies, 

*  Go  therefore,'  and  so  gives  the  quest 

to  him  — 

Him— here— a  villain  fitter  to  stick 
swine 


GARE  TH  AND  L  YNE  TTE.  315 

Than  ride  abroad  redressing  women's 
wrong, 

Or  sit  beside  a  noble  gentlewoman." 


Then  half-ashamed  and  part-amazed, 
the  lord 

Now  look'd  at  one  and  now  at  other, 
left 

The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his  pride. 
And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board, 
Sat  down  beside  him ,  ate  and  then  be- 
gan. 

Friend,  whetl  er  ye  be  kitchen- 
knave,  or  not, 
Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden's  fan- 
tasy, 

And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the 
King, 

Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 
I  ask  not :  but  thou  strikest  a  strong 
stroke. 

For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  there- 
withal, 

And  saver  of  my  life  ;  and  therefore 
now. 

For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with, 
weigh, 

Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  damsel 
back 

To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 
King. 

Thy  pardon  ;  I  but  speak  for  thine 
avail. 

The  saver  of  my  life." 

And  Gareth  said, 
"  Full  pardon,  but  I  follow  up  the 
quest. 

Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death 
and  Hell." 
So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose 
life  he  saved 

Had,  some  brief  space,  convey' d  them 
on  their  way 

And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir  Ga- 
reth spake, 

"Lead and  I  follow."   Haughtily  she 
replied, 

I  fly  no  more  :  I  allow  thee  for  an 
hour. 

Lion  and  stoat  have  isled  together, 
knave, 

In  time  of  flood.   Nay,  furthermore, 
methinks 


316 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Some  rutli  is  mine  for  thee.  Back  wilt 
thou,  fool  ? 

For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  over- 
throw 

And  slay  thee  :  then  will  I  to  court 
again, 

And  shame  the  King  for  only  yielding 
me 

My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his 
hearth." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  cour- 
teously, 

Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I  will  do  my 
deed. 

Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou 
wilt  find 

My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers,  who 
lay 

Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the 
King's  son." 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those 

long  loops 
Wherethro'  the  serpent  river  coil'd, 

they  came. 
Rough-thicketed  were  the  banks  and 

steep ;  the  stream 
Full,  narrow ;  this  a  bridge  of  single 

arc 

Took  at  a  leap ;  and  on  the  further 
side 

Arose  a  silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 
In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily 
in  hue, 

Save  that  the  dome  was  purple,  and 
above. 

Crimson,  a  slender  banneret  fluttering. 
And  there  before  the  lawless  warrior 
paced 

Unarm'd,  and  calling,  Damsel,  is 
this  he. 

The  champion  ye  have  brought  from 

Arthur's  hall  ? 
For  whom  we  let  thee  pass."  "Nay, 

nay,"  she  said, 
"  Sir  Morning-Star.  The  King  in  utter 

scorn 

Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent 
thee  here 

His  kitchen-knave  :  and  look  thou  to 
thyself : 

See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly, 
And  slay  thee  unarm'd  :  he  is  not 
knight  but  knave." 


Then  at  his  call,  "O  daughters  of 
the  Dawn, 
And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star,  ap- 
proach 

Arm  me,"  from  out  the  silken  curtain- 
folds 

Barefooted  and  bareheaded  three  fair 
girls 

In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came  :  their 
feet 

In  dewy  grasses  glisten'd  ;  and  the 
hair 

All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with 
gem 

Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine. 
These  arm'd  him  in  blue  arms,  and 

gave  a  shield 
Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning 

star. 

And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the 
knight, 

Who  stood  a  moment,  ere  his  horse 

was  brought. 
Glorying;  and  in  the  stream  beneath 

him,  shone, 
Immingled  with  Heaven's  azure  wa- 

veringly. 

The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked  feet, 
His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the 
star. 

Then  she  that  watch'd  him,  Where- 
fore stare  ye  so  ? 
Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear  :  there  yet  is 
time  : 

Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to 
horse. 

Who  will  cry  shame?  Thou  art  not 
knight  "but  knave." 
Said   Gareth,    -'Damsel,  whether 
knave  or  knight, 
Far  liever  had  I  tight  a  score  of  times 
Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  re- 
vile. 

Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who 

fights  for  thee ; 
But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 
That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine 

arms,  I  know 
That  I  shall  overthrow  him." 

And  he  that  bore 
The  star,  being  mounted,  cried  from 

o'er  the  bridge, 
A  kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn 

of  me ! 


GARETH  AN 

SSuch  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with 
scorn. 

for  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further 
wrong 

Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his 
horse 

4nd  arms,  and  so  return  him  to  the 
King. 

ome,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  light- 
ly, knave. 
4void  :  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady." 

"  Dog,  thou  liest. 
I  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine 
own." 

Hcl  spak^ ;  and  all  at  fiery  speed  the 
two 

Shock' d  on  the  central  bridge,  and 

either  spear 
Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight 

at  once, 

Hurl'd  as  a  stone  from  out  of  a  cata- 
pult 

Beyond  his  horse's  crupper  and  the 
bridge, 

Fell,  as  if  dead  ;  but  quickly  rose  and 
drew, 

And  Gareth  lash'd  so  fiercely  with  his 
brand 

He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down 

the  bridge, 
The  damsel  crying,  **  Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave  ! " 
Till  Gareth's  shield  was  cloven ;  but 

one  stroke 
Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on 

the  ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall'n,    Take  not  my 
life  :  T  yield." 
And  Gareth,    So  this  damsel  ask  it  of 
me 

Good  — I  accord  it  easily  as  a  grace." 
She  reddening,  ''  Insolent  scullion  :  I 
of  thee  ? 

I  bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask'd  !  " 
**Then  shall  he  die."    And  Gareth 

there  unlaced 
His  helmet  as  to  slay  him,  but  she 

shriek 'd, 

"  Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to  slay 
One  nobler  than  thyself."  Damsel, 

thy  charge 
Is   an    abounding   pleasure  to  me. 

Knight, 


D  LYNETTE.  317 

Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command. 

Arise 

And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur's  hall,  and 

say 

His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee. 

See  thou  crave 
His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his 

laws. 

Myself,  when  I  return,  will  plead  for 
thee. 

Thy  shield  is  mine  —  farewell ;  and, 

damsel,  thou 
Lead,  and  I  follow." 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 
Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake, 

"  Methought, 
Knave,  when  I  watch'd  thee  striking 

on  the  bridge 
The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon 

me 

A  little  faintlier  :  but  the  wind  hath 
changed  : 

I  scent  it  twentyfold."   And  then  she 
sang, 

"  *  O  morning  star '  (not  that  tall  felon 
there 

Whom  tliou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 
Or  some    device,  hast  foully  over- 
thrown), 

*0  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the 
blue, 

O  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven 
true. 

Smile  sweetly,  thou  !  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.' 

But  thou  begone,  take  counsel,  and 
away, 

For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a 
ford — 

The  second  brother  in  their  fool's  par- 
able— 

Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to 
boot. 

Care  not  for  shame :  thou  art  not 
knight  but  knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer 'd,  laugh- 
ingly? 

"Parables?    Hear  a  parable  of  the 
knave. 

When  I  was  kitchen -knave  among  the 
rest 

Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my 
CP-mates 


318 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE. 


Owii'd  a  rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast 
his  coat, 

*  Guard  it,'  and  there  was  none  to  med- 
dle with  it. 

And  such  a  coat  art  thou,  and  thee  the 
King 

Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a  dog  am 
Ij 

To  worry,  and  not  to  flee—  and  — 

knight  or  knave— 
The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as 

full  knight 
Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 
Toward  thy  sister's  freeing." 

Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 
Ay,  knave,  because  thou  strikest  as  a 
knight 

Being  but  knave,  I  hate  thee  all  the 
more." 

Fair  damsel,  ye  should  worship  me 
the  more. 

That,  being  but  knave,  I  throw  thine 
enemies." 

Ay,  ay,"  she  said,  "  but  thou  shalt 
meet  thy  match." 

So  when  they  touch'd  the  second 
river-loop, 
Huge  on  a  huge  red  horse,  and  all  in 
mail 

Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noon- 
day Sun 

Beyond  a  raging  shallow.  As  if  the 
flower, 

That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets. 
Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash' d 

the  flerce  shield, 
All  sun  ;  and  Gareth's  eyes  had  flying 

blots 

Before  them  when  he  turn'd  from 

watching  him. 
He  from  beyond  the  roaring  shallow 

roar'd, 

*'  What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my 

marches  here  ?  " 
And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill'd 

again, 

"Here  is  a  kitchen-knave  from  Ar- 
thur's hall 

Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and 
hath  his  arms." 
Ugh  !  "  cried  the  Sun,  and  vizoring 
up  a  red 


And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolish- 
ness, 

Push'd  horse  across  the  foamings  of 
the  ford, 

Whom  Gareth  met  midstream  :  no 

room  was  there 
For    lance    or  tourney-skill  :  four 

strokes  they  struck 
With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty  : 

the  new  knight 
Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ;  but  as 

the  Sun 

Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike 
the  flfth, 

The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the 

stream,  the  stream 
Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash'd 

away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athv»rart 
the  ford  ; 

So  drew  him  home  ;  but  he  tha  ould 
not  fight, 

As  being  all  bone-battered  on  the  rock, 
Yielded  ;  and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the 
King. 

Myself  when  1  return  will  plead  for 
thee. 

Lead,  and  I  follow."  Quietly  she  led. 
'*Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel, 

changed  again  ! " 
**  Nay,  not  a  point:  nor  art  thou  ..- 

tor  here. 

There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the 
ford ; 

His  horse  thereon  stumbled— ay,  for  J 
saw  It. 

'*  *  O  Sun '  (not  this  strong  fool  whc  m 
thou.  Sir  Knave, 
Hast  overthrown  thro'  mere  unhappi 
ness), 

'  O  Sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or 
pain, 

O  moon,  that  lay  est  all  to  sleep  again, 
Shine  sweetly  :  twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.' 

What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong  oi 
of  love? 

Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert nobly 
born, 

Thou  hast  a  pleasant  presence.  Yea, 
perchance, — 

*' '  O  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  th« 
sun. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


O  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is 
done, 

Blow  sweetly:  twice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.' 

What  knowest  thou  of  flowers,  ex- 
cept, belike. 

To  garnish  meats  with  ?  hath  not  our 
good  King 

"Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kitch- 
endom, 

A  foolish  love  for  flowers  ?  what  stick 
ye  round 

The  pa  ty?  wherewithal  deck  the 
hour's  head  ? 

Flowers?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rose- 
maries and  bay. 

*  O  birds,  that  warble  to  the  morn- 
ing sky, 

O  bi.   '  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by, 
Sing'     'eetly  :  twice  my  love  hath 
ailed  on  me.* 

**  What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark, 

mavis,  merle, 
Limvot?  what  dream  ye  when  they 

utter  forth 
May-music  growing  with  the  growing 

light. 

Their  sweet  sun-worship  ?  these  be  for 

•  the  snare 
(So  runs  thy  fancy)  these  be  for  the 

spit. 

Larding  and  basting.  See  thou  have 
not  now 

Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and 

.  fly- 
There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their 
allegory." 
For  there  beyond  a  bridge  of  treble 
bow, 

All  in  a  rose-red  from  the  west,  and  all 
Naked  it  seem'd,  and  glowing  in  the 
broad 

Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,  the 
knight, 

hat  named  himself  the  Star  of  Eve- 
ning, stood. 

And  Gareth,    Wherefore  waits  the 
madman  there 
Naked  in  open  dayshine?'*  '*Nay," 
she  cried, 

"  Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden*d 
skins 


319 

and  so  ye 


That  fit  him  like  his  owl* 
cleave 

His  armor  olf  him,  these  will  turn  the 
blade." 

Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o'er 
the  bridge, 
"  O  brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here  so 
low? 

Thy  ward  is  higher  up  :  but  have  ye 
slain 

The  damsel's  champion?"  and  the 
damsel  cried, 

No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from  Ar- 
thur's heaven 

With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 

For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have 
gone  down 

Before  this  youth ;  and  so  wilt  thou. 
Sir  Star ; 

Art  thou  not  old  ?  " 

"Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 
Old,  with  the  might  and  breath  of 

twenty  boys.'' 
Said  Gareth,  "Old,  and  over-bold  in 

brag  ! 

But  that  same  strength  which  threw 

the  Morning-Star 
Can  throw  the  Evening." 

Then  that  other  blew 
A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  lioni. 
"  Approach  and  arm  me  !  "  With  slow 

steps  from  out 
An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many- 

stain'd 

Pavilion,  forth  a  grizzled  damsel  came. 
And  arm'd  him  in    old  arms,  ana 

brought  a  helm 
With  but  a  drying  evergreen  for  crest, 
And  gave  a  shield  whereon  the  Star  of 

Even 

HaJf-tarnish'd  and  half-bright,  his  em- 
blem, shone. 

But  when  it  glitter' d  o'er  the  saddle- 
bow. 

They  madly  hurl'd  together  on  the 
bridge. 

And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted, 
drew, 

There  met  him  drawn,  and  overthrew 

him  again , 
But  up  like  fire  he  started  :  and  as  oft 
As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on 

his  knees, 


320 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


So  many  a  time  lie  vaulted  up  again  ; 
Till  Garetli  panted  hard,  and  bis  great 
heart. 

Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in 
vain, 

Labor'd  within  him,  for  he  seem'd  as 
one 

That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 

To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life, 

But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and 

*'Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst 

not  put  us  down  !  " 
He  half  despairs  ;  so  Gareth  seem'd  to 

strike 

Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the 
while, 

"  Well  done,  knave-knight,  well  strick- 
en, O  good  knight-knave — 

O  knave,  as  noble  as  any  of  all  the 
knights — 

Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.   I  have 

prophesied — 
Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  Table 

Round — 

His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  hard- 

en'd  skin- 
Strike  —  strike  —  the  wind  will  never 

change  again." 
And  Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier 

smote. 

And  hew'd  great  pieces  of  his  armor  olf 
him, 

But  lash'd  in  vain  against  the  hard- 
en'd  skin, 

And  could  not  wholly  bring  him  under, 
more 

Than  loud  South  westerns,  rolling  ridge 
on  ridge. 

The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips 

and  springs 
Forever :  till  at  length  Sir  Gareth's 

brand 

Clash'd  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the 
hilt. 

*<I  have  thee  now;"  but  forth  that 

other  sprang, 
And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his 

wiry  arms 
Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his 

mail, 

Strangled,  but  straining  ev'n  his  utter- 
most 

Cast,  and  so  hurPd  him  headlong  o'er 
the  bridge 


Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and 

cried, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow." 

But  the  damsel  said, 
"I  lead  no  longer;  ride  thou  at  my 
side ; 

Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen- 
knaves. 

"  '  O  trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy 
plain, 

O  rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain, 
Shine  sweetly  :  thrice  my  love  hath 
smiled  on  me.' 

Sir,— and,  good  faith,  I  fain  had 
added — Knight, 
But  that  I  heard  thee  call  thyself  a 
knave,— 

Shamed  am  I  that  I  so  rebuked,  re- 
viled, 

Missaid  thee  :  noble  I  am  :  and  thought 
the  King 

Scorn'd  me  and  mine ;  and  now  thy 
pardon,  friend. 

For  thou  hast  ever  answer'd  courte- 
ously. 

And  wholly  bold  thou  art,  and  meek 
withal 

As  any  of  Arthur's  best,  but,  being 
knave. 

Hast  mazed  my  wit :  I  marvel  what 
thou  art." 

Damsel,"  he  said, "  ye  be  not  all  to 
blame. 

Saving  that  ye  mistrusted  our  good 
King 

Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  thee, 

asking,  one 
Not  fit  to  cope  thy  quest.   Ye  said 

your  say  ; 
Mine  answer  was  my  deed.  Good 

sooth !  I  hold 
He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half -man, 

nor  meet 

To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who 
lots 

His  heart  be  stirr'd  with  any  foolish 
heat 

At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 
Shamed?  care  ngt !  thy  foul  sayings 

fought  for  me  : 
And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair, 

methinkB 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot, 

his  great  self, 
Hath  force  to  quell  me." 

Nigh, upon  that  hour 
When  the  lone  hern  for    ts  his  melan- 
choly. 

Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretch- 
ing dreams 
Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool, 
Then  turn'd  the  noble  damsel  smiling 
at  him, 

And  told  him  of  a  cavern  hard  at  hand, 
Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and 

good  red  wine 
Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyon- 

ors 

Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited 
him. 

Anon  they  past    a   narrow  comb 
wherein 

Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures,  knights 
on  horse 

Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly  wan- 
ing hues. 

*'  Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a  hermit  once 
was  here, 

Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion' d  on 
e  rock 

The  war  f  Time  against  the  soul  of 
man. 

And  y  n  four  fools  have  suck'd  their 
a  gory 

From  iiese  damp  walls,  and  taken 
b    the  rm. 

Know  ye  not  these?"  and  Gareth 
lookt  and  rea^ 

In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 

Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  stream- 
ing Gelt— 

"  Phosphorus,"  then  Meridies  "— 
Hesperus" — 

*'Nox"— "Mors,"  beneath  five  fig- 
ures, armed  men, 

Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward  all. 

And  running  down  the  Soul,  a  Shape 
that  fled 

With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment  and 

loose  hair, 
For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit's 

cave. 

** Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it. 

Look, 

Who  comes  behind?'*  • 


321 

For  one— delay'd  at  first 
Thro'  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To  Camelot,  then  by  what  thereafter 
chanced. 

The  damsel's  headlong  error  thro'  thp 
wood — 

Sir  Lancelot,  having  swum  the  river- 
loops — 

His  blue  shield-lions  cover' d— softly 
drew 

Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw 
the  star 

Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth's  turning  to  him, 
criid. 

Stay,  f  ion  knight,  I  avenge  me  for 
my  friend," 
And  Gareth  crying  prick'd  against  the 
cry  ; 

But  when  they  closed — in  a  moment — 

at  one  touch 
Of  that  skill 'd  spear,  the  wonder  of 

the  world — 
Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within 

his  hands 

He  ^augh'd  ;  the  laughter  jarr'd  upon 
Lynette : 

Harshly  she  ask'd  him,  ''Shamed  and 
overthrown, 

And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen- 
knave. 

Why  laugh  ye?  that  ye  blew  your 

boast  in  vain?" 
"  Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the 

son 

Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Belli- 
cent, 

And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford, 
And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown 
by  whom 

I  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappi- 
ness — 

Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiness — 
Out,  sword ;  we  are  thrown ! "  and 

Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Prince, 
O  Gareth — thro'  the  mere  unhappiness 
Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee  not  to 

harm, 

Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee 
whole, 

As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted 
him." 

Then  Gareth,     Thou— Lancelot 
thine  the  hand 


.32S 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE, 


That  threw  me  ?  An  some  chance  to 

mar  the  boast 
Thy  brethren  of  thee  make  —  which 

could  not  chance — 
Had  sent  thee  down  before  a  lesser 

spear 

Shamed  had  I  been  and  sad— O  Lance- 
lot—thou.! " 

Whereat    the    maiden,  petulant, 
"  Lancelot, 
Why  came  ye  not,  when  call'd?  and 

wherefore  now 
Come  ye,  not  call'd?  I  gloried  in  my 
knave, 

Who  being  still  rebuked,  would  answer 
still 

Courteous  as  any  knight — but  now,  if 
knight. 

The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool'd 

and  trick'd. 
And  only  wandering  wherefore  play'd 

upon : 

And  doubtful  whether  I  and  mine  be 
scorn'd. 

Where  should  De  truth  if  not  in  Ar- 
thur's hall, 

In  Arthur's  presence  ?  Knight,  knave, 
prince  and  fool, 

I  hate  thee  and  forever," 

And  Lancelot  said, 

"  Blessed  be  thou,  Sir  Gareth  !  knight 
art  thou 

To  the  King's  best  wish.  O  damsel, 
be  ye  wise 

To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  over- 
thrown ? 

Thrown  have  I  been,  nor  once  but 

many  a  time. 
Victor  from  vanquish'd  issues  at  the 

last. 

And  overthrower  from  being  over- 
thrown. 

With  sword  we  have  not  striven  ;  and 

thy  good  horse 
And  thou  art  weary :  yet  not  less  I 

felt 

Thy  manhood  thro'  that  wearied  lance 
of  thine. 

Well  hast  thou  done ;   for  all  the 

stream  is  freed. 
And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on 

his  foes. 

And  when  reviled,  hast  answer'd  gra- 
ciously. 


And  makest  merry,  when  ovrerthrown* 

Prince  Knight, 
Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  oui 

Table  Round ! " 

And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette 
he  told 

The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said, 
Ay  well— ay  well— for  worse  than 

being  fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.  A  cave. 
Sir  Lancelot  is  hard  by,  with  meats 

and  drinks 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for 

fire. 

But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,  till  we  And."   And  when  they 

sought  and  found, 
Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his 

life 

Past  into  sleep ;  on  whom  the  maiden 
gazed. 

"Sound  sleep  be  thine!  sound  cause 

to  sleep  hast  thou. 
Wake  lusty  !   Seem  I  not  as  tender  to 

him 

As  any  mother  ?  Ay,  but  such  a  one 
As  ail  day  long  hath  rated  at  her 
child. 

And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him 
asleep — 

Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the 

honeysuckle 
In  the  hush'd  night,  as  if  the  world 

were  one 

Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentle- 
ness ! 

O  Lancelot,  Lancelot" — and  she  clapt 

her  hands — 
"Full  merry  am  I  to  find  my  goodly 

knave 

Is  knight  and  noble.   See  now,  sworn 
have  I, 

Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me 
pass. 

To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle 
with  him. 

Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee 
first ; 

Who  doubts  thee  victor?  so  will  my 

knight-knave 
Miss  the  full  flower  of  the  accomplish 

ment." 

Said  Lancelot,  "  Perad venture  he, 
ye  name, 


May  know  my  shield, 
lie  will, 

Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my 

charger,  fresh, 
Not  to  be  spurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as 

well 

As  he  that  rides  him."  ''Lancelot- 
like," she  said, 

"Courteous  in  this.  Lord  Lancelot,  as 
in  all." 

And    Gareth,    wakening,  fiercely 

clutch'd  the  shield ; 
Ramp,  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on 
whom  all  spears 
Are  rotten  sticks !  ye  seem  agape  to 
roar  ! 

Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your 
lord  !— 

Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I  care 
for  you. 

0  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on 

these 

Streams  virtue— fire— thro'  one  that 
will  not  shame 

Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under 
shield. 

Hence  :  let  us  go." 

Silent  the  silent  field 

They  traversed.  Arthur's  harp  thro' 
summer- wan, 

In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds,  al- 
lured 

The  glance  of  Gareth  dreaming  on  his 
liege. 

A  star  shot :  '*  Lo,"  said  Gareth,  the 

toe  falls  ! "  ' 
Ai;i  owl  whoopt :  "  Hark  the  victor 

pealing  there  ! " 
Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 
Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent 

him,  crying, 
**  Yield,  yield  him  this  again  :  'tis  he 

must  fight  : 

1  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yester- 

day 

Beviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  on 
Lancelot  now 

To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield :  won- 
ders ye  have  done  ; 

Miracles  ye  cannot :  here  is  glory  enow 

In  having  flung  the  three  :  1  see  thee 
maim'd, 

Mangled  :  I  swear  thou  canst  not  fling 
the  fourth." 


QARETH  AND  L  YNETTE, 
Let  Gareth,  an 


323 


"And  wherefore,  damsel V  tell  me 
all  ye  know. 
Ye  cannot  scare  me;  norrougn  tace, 
or  voice, 

Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  sav- 
agery 

Appall  me  from  the  quest.** 

"  Nay,  Prince,"  she  cried, 
'*God  wot,  I  never  look'd  upon  th6 
face, 

Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by  day ; 
But  watch'd  him  have  I  like  a  phan- 
tom pass 

Chilling  the  night :  nor  have  I  heard 
the  voice. 

Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a 
page 

Who  came  and  went,  and  still  reported 
him 

As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of 
ten,       •  V 

And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  massa- 
cring 

Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl— yea  the 

soft  babe- 
Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow'd  in- 
fant flesh. 
Monster  !  O  prince,  T  went  for  Lance- 
lot first, 

The  quest  is  Lancelot's :  give  Mm 
back  the  shield." 

Said  Gareth  laughing,  "  An  be  fight 
for  this, 

Belike  he  wins  it  as  tne  better  man  : 
Thus— and  not  else  ?  " 

But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
Where  one  might  meet  a  mightier 

than  himself ; 
How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance, 

sword  and  shield, 
And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force 

might  fail 
With  skill  and  fineness.   Instant  were 

his  words. 
Then  Gareth,   ''Here  be  rules.  1 

know  but  one — 
To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to 

win. 

Yet  have  I  watch'd  thee  victor  in  the 
joust, 

And  seen  thy  way."  "  Heaven  helj 
thee,"  sigh'd  Lynette. 


GARETH  AND  L  YNETTE, 


Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud 
that  grew 
To  thunder-gloom    paling  all  stars, 
they  rode 

In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfry 
halt. 

Lifted  an  arm,  and  softly  whisper'd, 
"There." 

And  all  the  three  were  silent  seeing, 
pitch' d 

Beside  the  Castle   Perilous  on  flat 
field, 

A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 
Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  on  the 
marge. 

Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a  long 

black  horn 
Beside  it  hanging ;  which  Sir  Gareth 

graspt, 

And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder 
him. 

Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro*  all 
the  horn. 

Echo'd  the  walls ;  a  light  twinkled ; 
anon 

Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again 
he  blew : 

Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up 
and  down 

And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows 
past ; 

Till  high  above  him,  circled  with  her 
maids. 

The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to 
him 

"White  hands,  and  courtesy  ;  but  when 

the  Prince 
Three   times  had  blown — after  long 

hush— at  last — 
The  hugv  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 
Thro'  those  black  foldings,  that  which 

housed  therein. 
High  on  a  nightblack  horse^  in  night- 

b'ack  arms, 
With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren 

ribs  of  Death, 
And  crown'   with  fleshless  laughter — 

some  ten  st^ps — 
In  the  h         ht— thro'  the  dim  dawn 

—  .need 
The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and 

spake  no  word. 

But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indignantly. 


'*Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the 

strength  of  ten, 
Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God 

hath  given. 
But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee 

more, 

Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 
Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and 
the  clod, 

Less  dull  than  thou,  wil.'  hide  with 

mantling  flowers 
As  if  for  pity  ?"   But  he  spake  no 

word  ; 

Which  set  the  horror  higher :  a  maiden 
swoon' d ; 

The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands  and 
wept. 

As  doom'd  to  be  the  bride  of  Night  and 
Death  ; 

Sir  Gareth' s  head  prickled  beneath  his 
helm  ; 

And  ev'n  Sir  Lancelot  thro'  his  warm 

blood  felt 
Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark'd  him  were 

aghast. 

At  once  Sir  Lancelot's  charger  fierce- 
ly neigh'd — 

At  once  the  black  horse  bounded  for- 
ward with  him. 

Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  ter- 
ror, saw 

That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and 

slowly  rose. 
But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split 

the  skull. 

Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and 
lay. 

Then  with  a  stronger  buif et  he  clove 
thfe  helm 

As  throughly  as  the  skull ;  and  out 
from  this 

Issued  the  bright  face  of  a  blooming 
boy 

Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  crying, 
"  Knight, 

Slay  me  not :  my  three  brethren  bad  me 
do  it. 

To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house, 
And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors. 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  would 
be  past." 

Answer' d  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one 
Not  many  a  moon  his  younger,  My 
fair  child, 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


32S 


What  madness  made  thee  challenge  the 

chief  knight 
Of  Arthur's  hall?"   <'Fair  Sir,  they 

bad  me  do  it. 
They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the 

King's  friend, 
They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on 

the  stream, 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  could 

he  past." 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from 
underground ; 
And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house,  with 
dance 

And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over 
Death, 

As  being  after  all  their  foolish  feai-s 
And  horrors  only  proven  a  blooming 
boy. 

So  large  mirth  lived  and  Gareth  won 
the  quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older 
times 

Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 
But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 

The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Ar- 
thur's court, 
A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great  order  of  the  Table  Kound, 
Had  married  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child. 
And  loved  her,  as  lie  loved  the  light  of 
Heaven. 

And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies, 
now 

At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 
With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so 

loved  Geraint 
To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  b^''  day. 
In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 
And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband's 

eye. 

Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a 
state 

Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 
In  some  fresh  splendor  ;  and  the  Queen 
herself, 

Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service 
done. 


Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own 

white  hands 
Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  loveliest. 
Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the 

court. 

And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with 

true  heart 
Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the 

best 

And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 
And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so 
close, 

Long  in  their  common  love  rejoiced 
Geraint. 

But  when  a  rumor  rose  about  the  Queen, 
Touching  her  ^  lilty  love  for  Lancelot, 
Tho'  yet  there  livid  no  proof,  nor  yet 

was  heard 
The  world's  loud  whisper  breaking 

into  storm, 
Not  less  Geraint  believed  it ;  and  there 

fell 

A  horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 
Thro'  that  great  tenderness  for  Guin- 

Had  sufier'd,   or  should   suffer  any 
taint 

In  nnture  :    wherefore    going  to  the 
king, 

He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  prince- 
dom lay 

Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory, 
Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff 
knights, 

Assassins,  and  all  fliers  from  the  hand 
Of  Justice,   and   whatever    loathes  a 
law : 

And  t therefore,  till  the  king  himself 

should  please 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 

his  realm, 
He  craved  a  fair  permission  to  depart, 
And  there  defend  his  marches  ;  and 

the  king 

Mused  for  a  little  on  his  plea,  but,  la«t. 
Allowing  it,   the   Prince    and  Enid 
rode, 

And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them,  to 

the  shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 

land ; 

Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was 
wife 

True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to 
me. 


326  GERAINT  AND  ENID, 

He  compass' Ci  ner  with  sweet  observ- 
ances 

And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and 
grew 

Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  king, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt, 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 
Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its 
cares. 

And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to 
her. 

And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they 
met 

In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  companies, 
Began  to  scoff  an  jeer  and  babble  of 
him 

As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  was  all 
gone, 

And  molten  down  in  mere  uxorious- 
ness. 

And  this  she  gather'd  from  the  people's 
eyes  : 

This  too  the  woman  who  attired  her 
head, 

To  please  her, dwelling  on  his  boundless 
love. 

Told  Enid,  and  they  sadden'd  her  the 
more  : 

And  day  by  day  ghe  thought  to  tell 
Geraint, 

But  could  not  out  of  bashful  aelicacy  ; 
While  he  that  watch'd  her  sadden,  was 
the  more 

Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a  taint. 


At  last  it  chanced  tbat  on  a  summer 
morn 

(They  sleeping  each  by  either)  the  new 
sun 

Beat  thro'  the  blindless  casement  of 
the  room, 

And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his 
dreams  ; 

Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside, 
And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his 
throat. 

The  massive  square  of  his  heroic 
breast. 

And  arms  on  which  the  standing  mus- 
cle sloped, 

As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little 
stone, 

Kunning  too  vehemently  to  break  upon 
it. 


And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  tb# 

couch. 

Admiring  him,  and   thought  within 
herself, 

Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  he  *i 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people's 
talk 

And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over 
him, 

Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously  she 
said  : 


"  0  ncble  breast  and  all-puissant 
arms. 

Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  that 
men 

Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is 
gone? 

I  am  the  cause  because  I  dare  not 
speak 

And  tell  him  what  I  think  and  what 
they  say. 

And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger 

here  ; 

I  cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his 
name. 

Farliever  had  I  gird  his  harness  on 
him, 

And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand 

by, 

And  watch  his  mightf ul  hand  striking 

great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the 
world. 

Far  better  were  I  laid  in  the  dark 
earth. 

Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice, 
Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear 
arms, 

And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in  hia 
eyes. 

Than  that  my  lord  thro'  me  should 

suffer  shame. 
Am  T  so  bold,  and  could  I  so  stand  by, 
And  see  my  dear  1  rd  wounded  in  the 

strife, 

Or  maybe  pierced  to   death  before 

mine  eyes. 
And  yet  n  t  dare  to  tell  him  what  I 

think, 

And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  hii 
f  rce 

Is  melted  i  to  mere  effeminacy  ? 
O  me,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wiXiu" 


GERAINT  AND  ENID, 


32 


Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she 
spoke, 

And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made 
her  weep 

True  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked 
breast, 

And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great 

mischance 
He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later 

words. 

And  that  she  f  ear'd  she  was  not  a  true 
wife. 

And  then  he  thought,  "  In  spite  of  all 
my  care^ 

For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my 
pains. 

She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and  I  see 
her 

Weeping  for  some  gay  knight  in  Ar- 
thur's hall." 

Then  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced  her 
too  much 

To  dream  she  could  be  guilty  of  foul 
act. 

Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted 
the  pang 

That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  face 
of  her 

Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  mis- 
erable. 

At  this  he  hurl'd  his  huge  limbs  out  of 
bed, 

And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake 

and  cried, 
"  My  charger  and  her  palfrey,"  then  to 

her, 

I  will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to 
win, 

I  have  not  fall'ii  so  low  as  some  would 
wish. 

And  you,  put  on  your  worst  and  mean- 
est dress 

And  ride  with  me."  And  Enid  ask'd, 
amazed, 

•Tf  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her  fault." 
But  he,  "I  charge  you,  ask  not  but 
obey." 

Then  she  betliough  ther  of  a  faded  silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil, 
And  moving  toward  a  cedarn  cabinet. 
Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  rever- 
ently 

With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between 
the  folds, 


She  took  them,  and  array 'd  herself 
therein. 

Remembering  when  first  he  came  on 
her 

Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loveA 
her  in  it, 

And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the 
dress. 

And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  be- 
fore 

Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  on  a  day,  he  sitting  high  in 
hall, 

Before  him  came  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a 
hart 

Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky- 
white. 

First  seen  that  day  :  these  things  he 

told  the  king. 
Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let 

blow 

His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow 
morn. 

And  when  the  Queen  petition'd  for  his 
leave 

To  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were 
gone. 

But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn. 
Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming  of 
her  love 

For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the  hunt; 
But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with 
her, 

Took    horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and 

gain'd  the  wood  ; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds  ;  but  heard 

instead 

A  sudden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince 
Geraint, 

Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting- 
dress 

Nor  weapon,  save  a  golden-hilted 
brand. 

Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  shal- 
low  ford  * 

Behind  them,  and  so  gallop'd  up  the 
knoll. 

A  purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 


328  aSRAINT 

There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest 
gold, 

Sway'd  round  ahout  him,  as  he  gallop'd 
up 

To  join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon- 
fly 

In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 
Low  how'd  the  tributary  Prince,  and 
she, 

Sweetly  and   statelily,  and  with  all 
grace 

Of  womanhood  and  queenhood,  an- 
swer'd  him  : 
Late,   late,  Sir  Prince,"  she  said, 
"  later  than  we  !  " 

"  Yea,  noble  Queen,"  he  answer'd, 
"  and  so  late 

That  I  but  come  like  you  to  see  the 
hunt, 

Not  join  it."    "  Therefore  wait  with 

me,"  she  said  ; 
^  For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere. 
There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall 

hear  the  hounds  : 
Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our 

feet." 

And  while  they  listen' d  for  the  dis- 
tant hunt, 
A.nd  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King  Arthur's  hound  of  deepest  /nouth, 

there  rode 
Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and 
dwarf  ; 

Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,  and 

the  knight 
Had  visor  up,  and  show'd  a  youthful 

face, 

Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  linea- 
ments. 

And  Guinevere,  not  mindf  u.  of  his  face 
In  the  king's  hall,  desired  his  name, 
and  sent 

Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf; 
Who  being  vicious,  old,  and  irritable. 
And  doubling  all  his  master's  vice  of 
pride, 

Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should 
not  know. 
Then  will  I  ask  it  of  himself,"  she 
said. 

Nay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shaJt  not," 

cried  the  dwarf  ; 
Thou  art  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

of  him  ;  " 


AND  ENID. 

And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward 

the  knight. 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she 

return'd 

Indignant   to  the  Queen  ;  whereat 
Geraint 

Exclaiming,  "  Surely  I  will  learn  the 
name," 

Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd 
it  of  him. 

Who  answer'd  as  before  ;  and  when 

the  Prince 
Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward 

the  knight. 
Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut 

his  cheek. 
The  Prince's  blood  spirted  upon  the 

scarf, 

Dyeing  it  ;  and  his  quick,  instinctive 
hand 

Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him  : 
But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manful- 
ness 

And  pure  nobility  of  temperament. 
Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm,  re- 
frain'd 

From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning 
said  : 

I  will  avenge  this  insult,  noble 
Queen, 

Done  in  your  maiden's  person  to  your- 
self : 

And  I  will  track  this  vermin  to  their 
earths  : 

For  tho'  I  ride  unarm'd,  I  do  not  doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at, 
arms 

On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge  ;  and,  being 
found, 

Then  will  I  light  him,  and  will  break 
his  pride, 

And  on  the  third  day,  will  again  be 
here, 

So  that  I  be  not  fall'n  in  .fight.  Fare- 
well." 

"  Farewell,  fair  Prince,"  answer'd 
the  stately  Queen. 
"  Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in 
all  ; 

And  may  ye  light  on  all  things  that  ye 
love, 

And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first  yt 
love  : 


GERAIJSri 

But  ere  ye  wed  with  any,  bring  your 
bride, 

And  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar  from  the 
hedge. 

Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the 
sun." 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking 
that  he  heard 
The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far 
horn, 

A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode. 
By  ups  and  downs,  thro'  many  a  grassy 
glade 

And  valley,  with  fixt  eye  following  the 
three. 

At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of 
wood. 

And  climb'd  upon  a  fair  and  even  ridge. 
And  show'd  themselves  against  the 

sky,  and  sank- 
And  thither  came  Geiaint,  and  under- 
neath 

Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  whereof. 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  fort- 
ress rose  ; 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  in  decay. 
Beyond  a  bridge  that  spann'd  a  diy 
ravine  : 

And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a 
noise 

As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the 
night. 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the 
three, 

And  enter  d,  and  were  lost  behind  the 
walls. 

**  So,  "  thought  Geraint,  "  I  have 
track'd  him  to  his  earth.'* 

And  down  the  long  street  riding  weari- 
ly, 

Found  every  hostel  full,  and  every- 
where 

Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot 
hiss 

And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who 
scour'd 

His  master's  armor  ;  and  of  such  a  one 
He  ask'd,  "  What  means  the  tumult  in 
the  town  ?  " 


AND  ENID.  329 

Who  told   him,  scouring  still  "  The 

sparrow-hawk  !  " 
Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient 

churl. 

Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping 
beam. 

Went  sweating  underneath  a  sack  of 
corn, 

Ask'd  yet  once  more  what  meant  the 

hubbub  here  ? 
Whoanswer'd  gruffly,  "Ugh  !  the  spar- 
row-hawk." 
Then  riding  further  past  an  armorer's, 
Who,  with  back  turn'd,  and  bo  w'd  above 

his  work, 
Sat  riveting  a  helmet  on  his  knee. 
He  put  the  eelf-same  query,  but  th^ 
man 

Not  turning  roujid,  nor  looking  at  hiixi, 
said  : 

Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  spar- 
rc>w-hawk 
Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners." 
Whereat  Geraint  flash'd  into  sudden 
spleen  : 

"A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  sparrow- 
hawk  !  *^ 

Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing'd  nothings 
peck  him  dead  ! 

Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your 
bourg 

The  murmur  of  the  world  !  What  is  it 
to  me  ? 

O  wretched  *et  of  sparrows,  one  and 
all. 

Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow- 
hawks  ! 

'  Speak,  if  ye  be  not  like  the  rest,  hawk- 
mad. 

Where  can  I  get  me  harborage  for  the 
night? 

And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my 

enemy  ?    Speak  !  " 
At  this  the  armorer  turning  all  amazed 
And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 
Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in 

hand 

And  answer'd.  Pardon  me,  O  stran- 
ger knight ; 

We  hold  a  tourney  here  to-morrow 
morn. 

And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the 
work. 

Arms  ?  truth !  I  know  not  :  all  are 
wanted  here. 


330 


GERAINT  AKD  ENID. 


Harborage  ?  truth,  good  truth,  I  know 
not,  save, 

It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol's,  o'er  the 
bridge 

Yonder."  He  spoke  and  fell  to  work 
again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little  spleenful 

yet, 

Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry 
ravine. 

There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed 
Earl, 

(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnifi- 
cence. 

Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and 
said  : 

Whither,  fair  son?"  to  whom  Ge- 
raint replied, 
"  O  friend,  I  seek  a  harborage  for  the 
night." 

Then  Yniol,  "  Enter  therefore  and  par- 
take 

The  slender  entertainment  of  a  house 
Once  rich,  now  poor,  but  ever  open- 

door'd."  6 
Thanks,  venerable  friend,"  replied 

Geraint ; 

So  that  ye  do  not  serve  me  sparrow- 
hawks 

For  supper,  I  will  enter,  I  will  eat 
With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours' 
fast." 

Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoary- 
headed  Earl, 

And  answer'd,  Graver  cause  than 
yours  is  mine 

To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the  spar- 
row-hawk : 

But  in,  go  in  ;  for  save  yourself  desire 
it, 

We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in 
jest." 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle 
court, 

His  charger  trampling  many  a  prickly 
star 

Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken 
stones. 

He  look'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruin- 
ous. 

Here  stood  a  shatter' d  archway  plumed 

with  fern , 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a 

tower, 


Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from 
the  clilf , 

And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding 
flowers : 

And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair, 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent, 
wound 

Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy- 
stems 

Claspt  the   gray  walls  with  hairy 

fibred  arms, 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones, 

and  look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,  of.  snakes,  aloft,  a 

grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle 
court, 

The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol's  daughter, 
rang 

Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the 
Hall, 

Singing  ;  and  as  the.  sweet  voice  of  a 
bird. 

Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle. 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird 
it  is 

That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and 
make 

Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the 
form ; 

So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  Ge- 
raint ; 

And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at 
morn 

When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of 
men 

Comes  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemm'd  with 

green  and  red, 
And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a 

friend. 

Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands. 
To  think  or  say,    there  is  the  nightin* 
gale ; " 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought 
and  said, 

"  Here,  by  God's  grace,  is  the  one  voice 
for  me." 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang 
was  one 

Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid 


GERAINT 

Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and 

lower  the  proud ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine, 

storm,  and  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 

nor  hate. 

*'  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with 
smile  or  frown ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or 
down  ; 

Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great. 

Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of 

many  lands ; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our 

own  hands  ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

**Turn  turn  thy  wheel  above  the 
staring  crowd  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the 
cloud  ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love 
nor  hate." 
Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  you  may 
learn  the  nest" 

Said  Yniol ;    Enter  quickly."  Enter- 
ing then. 

Right  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen 
stones, 

The    dusky-rafter'd  many-cobweb'd 
Hall, 

He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  bro- 
cade ; 

And  near  her,  like  a  blossom  vermeil- 
white, 

That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower- 
sheath. 

Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk, 
Her  daughter.    In  a  moment  thought 
Geraint, 

Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid 
for  me." 

But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary 
Earl  : 

"  Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands 

in  the  court ; 
Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn, 

and  then 

Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and 
wine  ; 

And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great." 


AND  ENID,  331 

He  spake :  the  Prince,  as  Enid  past 
him,  fain 

To  follow,  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol 
caught 

His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said 
Forbear  ! 

Rest !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  O 
my  Son, 

Endures  not  that  her  guest  should 

serve  himself." 
And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the 

house 

Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall ; 
And  after  went  her  way  across  the 
bridge. 

And  reach'd  the  town,  and  while  the  " 

Prince  and  Earl 
Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with 
one, 

A  youth,  that  following  with  a  costrel 
bore 

The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh 
and  wine. 

And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make 

them  cheer. 
And  in  her  veil  enfolded,  manchet 

bread. 

And  then,  because  their  hall  must  also 
serve 

For  kitchen,  boil'd  the  flesh,  and  spread 

the  board, 
And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the 

three. 

And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  service- 
able, 

Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little 
thumb. 

That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it 
down  : 

But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his 
veins. 

Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work, 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky 
hall ; 

Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl : 

"Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I  pray  your 

courtesy ; 

This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tell  me 
of  liim. 


B32 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


His  name  ?  but  no,  good  faith,  I  will 

not  have  it : 
For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I  saw 
iiide  into  that  new  fortress  by  your 

town, 

White  from  the  mason's  hand,  then 

have  I  sworn 
From  his  own  lips  to  have  it— I  am 

Geraint 

Of  Devon — for  this  morning  when  the 
Queen 

Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  the 
name. 

His  dwarf,  a  vicious  under-shapen 
thing, 

Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she 
return'd 

Indignant  to  the  Queen ;  and  then  1 
swore 

That  I  would  track  this  caitiff  to  his 
hold. 

And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  and  have 
it  of  him. 

And  all  unarm'd  1  rode,  and  thought 
to  find 

Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men 
are  mad ; 

They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their 
bourg 

For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round 

the  world ; 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak  :  but  if 

ye  know 

Where  I  can  light  on  arms,  or  if  your- 
self 

Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  1 

have  sworn 
That  1  will  break  his  pride  and  learn 

his  name. 

Avenging  this  great  insult  done  the 
Queen." 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol.      Art  thou 
he  indeed, 
Geraint,  a  name  far-sounded  among 
men 

For  noble  deeds?  and  truly  T,  when 
first 

I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge, 
Felt  you  were  somewhat,  yea  and  by 

your  state 
And  presence  might  have  guess' d  you 

one  of  those 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  Camelot. 
Nor  speak  I  now  from  foolish  flattery  ; 


For  tills  dear  child  hath  often  heard 

me  praise 
Four  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  I 

paused 

Hath  ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to 
hear ; 

So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of 
wrong :  v 

0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 
Of  suitors  as  this  maiden  ;  first  Li- 

mours, 

A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 
wine, 

Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd ;  and  be  he 
dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  past  to  the  wild 

land. 

The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow- 
hawk, 

My  curse,  my  nephew — I  will  not  let 
his  name 

Slip  from  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it — he, 
When  I  that  knew  him  fierce  and  tur- 
bulent 

Kefused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride 
awoke  ; 

And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the 
mean, 

He  sow'd  a  slander  in  the  common  ear, 
Aflirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold, 
And  iu  my  charge,  which  was  not  ren- 

der'd  to  him ; 
Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men 

who  served 
About  my  person,  the  more  easily 
Because  my  means  were  somewhat 

broken  into 
Thro'  open  doors  and  hospitality  ; 
Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in  tie 

night 

Before  my  Enid's  birthday,  sack'd  my 
house  ; 

From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted 
me ; 

Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my 
friends, 

For  truly  there  are  tliose  who  love  m« 

y^t ; 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle 
here, 

Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon 
to  death. 

But  that  his  pride  too  much  despisea 
me : 


GERAINT 

And  I  myself  sometimes  despise  my- 
self; 

For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their 
way  ; 

Am  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used  my 
power  : 

Nor  know  I  whether  I  be  very  base 
Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 
Or  very  foolish  ;  only  this  1  know, 
That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 
I  seem  to  sulfer  nothing  heart  or  limb. 
But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently." 

"Well  said,  true  heart,"  replied  Ge- 
raint,    but  arms  : 
That  if  the  sparrow-hawk,  this  nephew, 
fight. 

In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his 
pride." 

And  Yniol  answer'd  ''Arms,  indeed, 
but  old 

And  rusty,  old  and  rusty.  Prince  Ge- 
raint. 

Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  your  ask- 
ing, yours. 

But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man 
tilt. 

Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 
Two  forks  are  tixt  into  the  meadow 
ground. 

And  over  these  is  laid  a  silver  wand. 
And  over  that  is  placed  the  sparrow- 
hawk. 

The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest 
there. 

And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in 
field 

Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side. 
And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  there- 
upon, 

Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of  bone 
Has  ever  won  it  for  the  ladv  with  him, 
And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 
Has  earn'd  himself  the  name  of  spar- 
row-hawk. 
But  you,  that  have  no  lady,  cannot 
fight." 

To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  cll  bright 
replied, 

Leaning  a  little  toward  him,  "Your 
leave ! 

Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O  noble  host. 
For  this  decir  child,  because  I  never 
saw,  ' 


AND  ENID.  333 

Tho'  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our 
time, 

Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so 
fair. 

And  if  I  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnish'd  as  before  ;  but  if  1  live, 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  utter- 
most, 

As  I  will  make  her  truly  my  true 
wife." 

Then,  howsoever   patient,  Yniol's 
heart 

Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better 
days. 

And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Enid 
there, 

(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had  slipt 
away) 

But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  ten- 
derly 

And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he 
said, 

"  Mother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing, 
And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  under- 
stood. 

Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to  rest 
Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward 
the  Prince." 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl, 
and  she 

With  frequent  smile  and  nod  departing  ^ 
found, 

Half  disarray'd  as  to  her  rest,  the  gii'l ; 
Whom  first  she  kiss'd  on  either  cheek, 
and  then 

On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a  hand, 
And  kept  her  on  and  gazed  upon  her 
I  face, 
And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  the 
hall, 

Proving  her  heart :  but  never  light  and 
shade 

Coursed  one  another  more  on  open 
ground 

Beneath  a  troubled  heaven,  than  red 
and  pale 

Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her  ; 
While  slowly  falling  as  a  scale  that 
falls. 

When  weight  is  added  only  grain  by 
grain, 

Sank  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gentle 
breast ; 


334  GERAINT 

Nor  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a 
word, 

Rapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of 
it; 

So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail'd  to 
draw 

The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but  lay- 
Contemplating  her  own  un worthiness ; 
And  when  the  pale  and  bloodless  east 
began 

To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and 
raised 

Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand  they 
moved 

Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts 

were  held, 
And  waited  there  for  Yniol  and  Ge- 

raint. 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and 

when  Geraint 
Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him, 
He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily 

force, 

Himself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could 
move 

The  chair  of  Idris.  Yniol's  rusted  arms 
Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro' 
these 

Princelike  his  bearing,  shone  ;  and  er- 
rant knights 
j    ^nd  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the 
f  town 

Flow'd  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the 
lists. 

And  there  they  fixt  the  forks  into  the 
ground. 

And  over  these  they  placed  a  silver 
wand 

And  over  that  a  golden  sparrow-hawk. 
Then  Yniol's  nephew,  after  trumpet 
blown, 

Spake  to  the  lady  with  him  and  pro- 
claim'd, 

"  Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the 
fair. 

For  1  these  two  years  past  have  won  it 
for  thee. 

The  prize  of  beauty."   Loudly  spake 

the  Prince, 
**  Forbear  :  th^re  is  a  worthier,"  and 

the  knight 
With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much 

disdain 


AND  ENID.  ^ 

Turn'd,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all 

his  face 

Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at 
Yule, 

So  burnt  he  was  with  pas8ion,crying  out, 
Do  battle  for  it  then,"  no  more  ;  and 
thrice 

They  clash' d  together,  and  thrice  they 

brake  their  spears. 
Then  each,   dishorsed  and  drawing, 

lash'd  at  each 
So  often  and  with  such  blows,  that  all 

the  crowd 
Wonder'd,  and  now  and  then  from  dis- 
tant walls 
There  came  a  clapping  as  of  phantom 
hands. 

So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they 

breathed,  and  still 
The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the 
blood 

Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain'd 

their  force. " 
But  cither's  force  was  match'd  till 
Yniol's  cry, 
Remember  that  great  insult  done  the 
Queen," 

Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  his 

blade  aloft. 
And  crack'd  the  helmet  thro',  and  biv 
the  bone. 

And  fell'd  him,  and  set  foot  upon  his 
breast. 

And  said,  "  Thy  name  ?  "  To  whom  the 

fallen  man 
Made  answer,  groaning,  ''Edyrn,  son 
of  Nudd ! 

Ashamed  am  1  that  I  should  tell  it 
thee. 

My  pride  is  broken  :  men  have  seen  my 
fall." 

"  Then,  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd,"  replied 
Geraint, 

"  These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or 

else  thou  diest. 
First,  thou  thyself,  thy  lady,  and  thy 
dwarf, 

Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  being 
there. 

Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  th# 
Queen, 

And  shalt  abide  her  judgmenf,on  it; 
next, 

Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to 
thy  kin. 


GERAINT  AND  ENID, 


335 


These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  thou 

Shalt  die." 
And  Edyrn  answer'd,    These  things 

will  I  do, 

For  I  have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 
And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my 
pride 

Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my  fall ! ' ' 
And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur's 
court, 

And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him 
easily. 

And  being  young,  he  changed,  and 
came  to  loathe 

His  crime  of  traitor,  slowly  drew  him- 
self 

Bright  from  his  old  dark  life,  and  fell 
at  last 

In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  king. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the 
hunting-morn^ 

Made  a  low  splendor  in  the  world,  and 
wings 

Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 
With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow 
light, 

Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the 
birds, 

Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  prom- 
ise given 

No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Ge- 
raint — 

So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third 
day, 

He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  prom- 
ise ^iven — 

To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the 
court, 

And  there  be  made  known  to  the 
stately  Queen, 

And  there  be  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony 

At  thie  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her 
'  ress, 

And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd 

8  .  .ean. 
For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 
The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to 

the  dress 

She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Ge- 
raint. 

And  still  she  looli'd,  and  still  the  ter- 
ror grew 


Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful 

thing,  a  court, 
All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk  : 
And  softly  to  herlown  sweet  heart  she 

said : 

''This noble  prince  who  won  our 
earldom  back, 
So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire, 
Sweet  heaven,  how  much  I  shall  dis- 
credit him  ! 
Would  he  could  tarry  with  us  here 
awhile  ! 

But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince, 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us, 
Bent  as  he  seem'd  on  going  this  third 
day, 

To  seek  a  second  favor  at  his  hands. 
Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a  day  or  two. 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  tin- 
ker lame, 

Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit 
him." 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a  dress 
All  branch'd  and  flower'd  with  gold,  a 

costly  gift 
Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  the 

night 

Before  her  birthday,  three  sad  years 
ago. 

That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyrn  sack'd 

their  house. 
And  scatter'd  all  they  had  to  all  the 

winds : 

For  wliile  the  mother  show'd  it,  and 
the  two 

Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the  work 
To  both  appear'd  so  costly,  rose  a  cry 
That  Edyrn's  men  were  on  them,  and 
they  fled 

With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had  on. 

Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought 
them  bread : 

And  Edyrn's  men  had  caught  them  in 
their  flight, 

And  placed  them  in  this  ruin ;  2,nd 
she  wish'd 

The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  an- 
cient home  ; 

Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past, 

And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  :he 
knew  ; 

And  last  bethought  her  how  she  us«d 
to  watch, 


336 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Near  that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden 
carp ; 

And  one  .^as  patch'd  and  hlurr'd  and 
lustreless 

Among  his  burnish'd  brethren  of  the 
pool ; 

And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded 
self 

And  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep 
again  ; 

And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a  faded 
form 

Among  her  burnish'd  sisters  of  the 
pool ; 

Bu  J  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a  king  ; 
.Vnd  tho'  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  she 
knew 

That  all  was  bright ;  that  all  about 
were  birds 

Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis- 
work  ; 

That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that 
look'd 

Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it ; 
And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court 
went 

In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state; 
And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of 
gold 

Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol' d  down 

the  walks ; 
And  while  she  thought  "  they  will  not 

see  me,''  came 
A  stately  queen  whose    name  was 

Guinevere, 
And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of 

gold 

Ran  to  her,  crying,  if  we  have  fish  at 
all 

Let  them  be  gold  ;  and  charge  the  gar- 
deners now 

To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the 
pool, 

And  cast  l^  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized 
on  her, 

And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her 
heart 

All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream, 
And  .  D !  it  was  her  mother  grasping 
her 

To  get  her  well  awake ;  and  in  her 
hand 

A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 


Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exult- 
ingly  : 

"  See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the 
colors  look. 
How  fast  they  hold  like  colors  of  a 
shell 

That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the 
wave. 

Why  not?  it  never  yet  was  worn,  I 
trow : 

Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  ye 
know  it." 

And  Enid  look'd,  but  all  confused  at 
first. 

Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish 
dream : 

Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  re- 
joiced. 

And  answer'd,    Yea,  I  know  it ;  your 

good  gift, 
So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night ; 
Your  own  good  gift !  "     Yea,  surely," 

said  the  dame, 
^'  And  gladly  given  again  this  happy 

morn. 

For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yes- 
terday. 

Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  every- 
where 

lie  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our 
house 

All  scatter'd  thro'  the  houses  of  the 
town ; 

And  gave  command  that  ail  which 

once  was  ours, 
Shoul  now  be  ours  again  :  and  yester- 

eve, 

While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with 

your  Prince 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my 

hand. 

For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of  us, 
Because  we  have  our  earldom  back 
again. 

And  yester-eve  I  would  not  tell  you  of 
it. 

But  kept  it  for  a  sweet  surprise  at 
morn. 

Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a  sweet  surprise  ? 
For  I  myself  unwillingly  have  worn 
My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have 
yours. 

And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 


GERAINT J 

All,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a  goodly 
house, 

With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous 
fare, 

And  page,  and  maid,  and  squire,  and 

seneschal, 
And  pastime  both  of  hawk  and  hound, 

and  all 

That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 
Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a  goodly 
house  ; 

But  since  our  fortune  ^lipt  from  sun  to 
shade. 

And  all  thro'  that  young  traitor,  cruel 
need 

Constrain'd  us,  but  a  better  time  has 
come  ; 

So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better 
fits 

Our  mended  fortunes  and  a  Prince's 
bride  : 

For  tho'  ye  won  the  prize  of  fairest 
fair, 

And  tho'  I  heard  him  call  you  fairest 
fair, 

Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair. 
She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than 
old. 

And  should  some  great  court-lady  say, 

the  Prince 
Hath  pick'd  a  ragged-robin  from  the 

hedge. 

And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the 
court. 

Then  were  ye  shamed,  and,  worse, 
might  shame  the  Prince 

To  whv^ra  we  are  beholden  ;  but  I 
kn^w, 

Wh-^^n  m y  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her 
best. 

That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho' 

they  sought 
Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of 

old 

That  li'-hted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her 
match." 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out 
of  breath ; 
And  Enid  listen'd  brightening  as  she 
lay  ; 

Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star 
of  morn 

Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and 


ND  ENID.  337 

Slips  int3  golden  cloud,  the  maiden 
rose, 

And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed 
herself, 

Help'd  by  the  mother's  careful  hand 
and  eye. 

Without  a  mirror,  in  the  gorgeouf 
gown  ; 

Who,  after,  turn'd  her  daughter  round, 
and  said. 

She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so 
fair  ; 

And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the 
tale. 

Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out 

of  flowers. 
And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cassi- 

velaun, 

Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Caesar 
first 

Invaded  Britain,  ("  but  we  beat  him 
back, 

As  this  great  prince  invaded  us,  and 
we, 

Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him 
with  joy. 

And  I  can  scarcely  ride  with  you  to 
court, 

For  old  am  I,  Ifcid  rough  the  ways  and 
wild ; 

But  Yniol  goes,  and  I  full  oft  shall 
dream 

I  see  my  princess  as  I  see  her  now. 
Clothed  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among 
the  gay.*' 

But  while  the  women  thus  rejoiced, 
Geraint 

Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall, 
and  call'd 

For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  re- 
port 

Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately 
queen, 

He  answer'd  ;  Earl,  entreat  her  by 
my  love, 

Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded 
silk." 

Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went ;  it 
fell. 

Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty 
com : 


338  GERAINT 

For  Enid  all  abash'd  she  knew  not 
why, 

Dared  not   to  glance   at  her  good 

mother's  face, 
But  silently,  in  all  obedience, 
Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her, 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-bioi- 

der'd  gift, 
And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit 

again. 

And  so  descended.    Never  m^^^  re- 
joiced 

More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus 
attired ; 

And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at 
her. 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eye- 
lid fall. 

But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satis- 
fied ; 

Tb  3n  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's 
brow, 

Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and 
sweetly  said. 

O  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or 
grieved 

At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition  to 
her. 

When  late  I  left  Caerleon,  our  great 
Queen, 

In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were 
so  sweet, 

Made  promise,  that  whatever  bride  I 
brought, 

Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun 

in  Heaven. 
Thereafter,  when  I  reach'd  this  ruin'd 

hold, 

Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  kind 
Queen, 

No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your 

Enid  burst 
Sunlike  from   cloud  —  and  likewise 

thought  perhaps, 
That  service  done  so  graciously  would 

bind 

The  two  together  ;  for  I  wish  the  two 
To  love  each  other  :  how  should  Enid 
find 

A  nobler  friend  ?   Another  thought  I 
had  ; 

I  came  among  you  here  so  suddenly, 


iND  ENID, 

That  tlio'  her  gentle  presence  at  the 
lists 

Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that 

I  was  loved, 
I  doubted  whether  filial  tenderness, 
Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 
Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her 

weal  j 

Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her  own 
self 

<^f  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall; 
And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long 
for  court 

And  all  its  dangerous  glories :  and  I 
thought, 

That  could  I  someway  prove  such  force 
in  her 

Link'd  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at 
a  word 

(No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast 
aside 

A  splendor  riear  to  women,  new  to  her, 
And  therefore  dearer ;  or  if  not  so 
new. 

Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the 
power 

Of  intermitted  custom  ;  then  I  felt 
That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and 
flows, 

Fixt  on  her  faith.   Now,  therefore,  I 
do  rest, 

A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy, 
That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can 
cross 

Between  us.    Grant  me  pardon  for  my 

thoughts  : 
And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will 

make 

Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy -day, 
When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your 

costly  gift 
Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with, 

on  her  knees. 
Who  knows  ?  another  gift  of  the  high 

God, 

Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn'd  to 
lisp  you  thanks." 

He  spoke  :  the  mother  smiled,  but 

half  in  tears. 
Then  brought  a  mantle  down  and 

wrapt  her  in  it. 
And  claspt  and  kiss'd  her,  and  they 

rode  away. 


GERAINT 

Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere 

had  climb'd 
The  giant  tower,  from  whose  liigh 

crest,  they  say. 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
Anil  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow 

sea ; 

But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale 
of  Usk, 

By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them 
come  ; 

And  then  descending  met  them  at  the 
gates, 

Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a 
friend, 

And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince's 
bride. 

And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like 
the  sun  ; 

And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon 
gay, 

For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high 
saint. 

They  twain  were  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year's  Whit- 
suntide. 

But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk, 
Bemembering  how  first  he  came  on 
her, 

Brest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 
her  in  it. 

And  all  her  loolish  fears  about  the 
dress^ 

And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as 
himself 

Ha<l  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said 
to  her, 

**Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest 
dress,"  she  found 

And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  there- 
in. 

O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  our- 
selves. 

By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for 
true ; 

Here,  thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this 
world 


AND  ENID,  339 

Groping,  how  many,  until  w^  pass  and 
reach 

That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are 
seen ! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issuing 
forth 

That  morning,  when  they  both  had  got 
to  horse. 

Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passion- 
ately, 

And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round 
ais  heart, 

Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break 
perforce 

Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said  : 
**Not  at  my  side.   I  charge  you  ride 
before, 

Ever  a  good  way  on  beZore  ;  and  this 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a  wife. 
Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to 
me, 

No,  not  a  word  !  "  and  Enid  was  aghast; 
And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three 
paces  on 

When  crying  out  "  Eifeminate  as  I  am, 
I  will  not  flght  my  way  with  gilded 
arms. 

All  shall  be  iron  ;  "  he  loosed  a  mighty 
purse. 

Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl'd  it  toward 

the  squire. 
So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 
Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing, 

strown 

With  gold  and  scatter'd  coinage,  and 

the  squire 
Chafing  his  shoulder  :  then  he  cried 

again. 

To  the  wilds  !  "  and  Enid  leading 
down  the  tracks 
Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on, 
they  past 

The  marches,  and  by  bandit-haunted 
holds, 

Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places 

of  the  hern 
And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they 

rode  : 

Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but 

slacken'd  soon  : 
A  stranger  meeting  them  had  surely 

thought 

They  rode  so  slowly  and  liiey  look'd  so 
pale, 


340  GERAINT 

That  each  had  sufter'd  some  exceeding 
wrong. 

For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself 
••01  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon 
her, 

To  compass  her  with  sweet  observ- 
ances, 

To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her 
true —  " 

And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in  his 
heart 

Abruptly,  as  a  man  upon  his  tongue 
May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters 
him. 

And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet 
heavens 

To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any 
wound. 

And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself, 
Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and 
so  cold  ; 

Till  the  great  plover's  human  whistle 
amazed 

Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the 
waste  she  fear'd 

In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambus- 
cade. 

Then  thought  again  "  if  there  be  such 
in  me, 

I  might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of 
heaven, 

If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of 
it." 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day 
was  gone, 

Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall 
knights 

On  horseback,  wholly  arm'd,  behind  a 
rock 

In  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs 
all ; 

And  heard  one  crying  to  his  f  iUow, 
Look, 

Here  comes  a  laggard  hanging  down 
his  head, 

"Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a  beaten 
hound  ; 

Come,  we  will  slay  him  and  will  have 
his  horse 

And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  be 
ours." 

Then  Enid  ponder' d  in  her  heart, 
and  said  ; 


AND  ENID. 

"  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord, 
And  1  will  tell  him  all  their  caitlfl 
talk  ; 

For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me. 
Far  liever  by  his  dear  hand  had  I  die. 
Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss  ot 
shame." 

Then  siie  went  back  some  paces  of 
return, 

Met  his  full  frown  timidly  firm,  and 
said  : 

"  My  lord,  I  saw  three  bandits  by  the 
rock 

Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them 
boast 

That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess 

your  horse 
And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should  be 

theirs." 

He  made  a  wrathful  answer.  Did  I 
wish 

Your  warning  or  your  silence?  one 
command 

I  laid  upl)n  you,  not  to  speak  to  me, 

And  thus  you  keep  it !  Well  when, 
look— for  now, 

Whether  you  wish  me  victory  or  de- 
feat, 

Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my 
death, 

Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not 
lost.** 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrow- 
ful. 

And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandit 
three. 

And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince 
Geraint 

Drave  the  long  spear  a  cubit  thro'  his 
breast 

And  out  beyond  ;  and  then  against  Ws 
brace 

Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken 
on  him 

A  lance  that  splinter'd  like  an  icicle, 
Swung  from  his  brand  a  windy  buffet 
out 

Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and 

stunn'd  the  twain 
Or  slew  them,  and  dismounting  like  a 

man 

That  skins  the  wildbeaaii  after  slaying 
him, 


OERAIJSrT  AND  ENID. 


341 


Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of 

woman  born 
The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which 

they  wore, 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the 

suits 

Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the 
three 

Together,  and  said  to  her,  ''Drive 
them  on 

Before  you  ; "  and  she  drove  them 
thro'  the  waste. 

He  follow'd  nearer :  ruth  began  to 
work 

Against  his  anger  in  him,  while  he 
watch'd 

The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the 
world. 

With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on  :  he  fain  had  spoken 
to  her. 

And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the 
wrath 

And  smoulder'd  wrong  that  burnt  him 

all  within  : 
But  evermore  it  seem'dan  easier  thing 
At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her 

dead. 

Than  to  cry  "  Halt,"  and  to  her  own 

bright  face 
Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty  : 
And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him 

wroth  the  more 
That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own 

ear  had  heard 
Call  herself  false  :  and  suffering  thus 

he  made 

Minutes  an  age  :  but  in  scarce  longer 
time 

Than  atCaerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 
Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again, 
Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  be- 
hold 

In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep 
wood, 

Before  a  gloom  of  stubborn-shafted 
oaks, 

three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly 
arm'd, 

Wliereof  one  seem'd  far  larger  than 
her  lord. 

And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  Look, 
a  prize ! 


Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of 
ajTiis, 

And  ai-  in  charge  of  whom  ?  a  girl :  set 
on." 

"  Nay"  said  the  second,  "  yonder  comes 

a  knight." 
The  third,  "  A  craven  ;  how  he  hangs 

his  head." 
The  giantanswer'd  merrily,  "  Yea,  but 

one? 

Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall  up- 
on him." 

And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and 
said, 

"  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord. 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 
And  they  will  falj  upon  him  unawares. 
I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good ; 
How  should  1  dare  obey  him  to  his 
harm  ? 

Needs  must  I  speak,  and  tho'  he  kill 
me  for  it, 

I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine." 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said 
to  him 

With  timid  firmness,    Have  I  leave  to 
speak?" 

He  said,    Ye  take  it,  speaking,"  and 
she  spoke. 

There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in 
the  wood. 

And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm'd,  and 
one 

Is  larger-limb' d  than  you  are,  and  they 
say 

That  they  will  fall  upon  yoi.  while  you 
pass." 

To  which>  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer 
back  : 

"  And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the 
wood, 

And  every  man  were  larger-limb'd 
than  I, 

And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon 
me, 

I  swear  it  would  not  ruflfle  me  so  much 
As  you  that  not  obey  me.  Stand  aside, 
And  if  I  fall,  cleave  to  the  better 
man." 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  th« 
event, 


842  GERAINT 

Not  dare  to  watch  tlie  combat,  only 
breathe 

Short  tits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a 
breath. 

And  he,  she  di'eaded  most,  bare  down 
upon  him. 

Aim'd  at  the  helm,  his  lance  err'd  ;  but 
Geraint's, 

A  little  in  the  late  encounter  strain'd, 

Struck  thro'  the  bulky  bandit's  corse- 
let home, 

And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his 

enemy  roll'd. 
And  there  lay  still ;  as  he  that  tells  the 

tale, 

Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promontory, 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-cliff's  windy  walls 

to  the  beach, 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling 

grew : 

So  lay  the  man  transfixt.  His  craven 
pair 

Of  comrades,  making  slowlier  at  the 
Prince, 

When  now  they  say  their  bulwark  fall- 
en, stood ; 

On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them 
more, 

Spurr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry  ;  for 
as  one. 

That  listens  near  a  torrent  mountain- 
brook. 

All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract 
hears 

The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger 
fall 

At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to 
hear 

His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by 
it, 

And  f  oeman  scared,  like  that  false  pair 

who  turn'd 
Flying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an 

innocent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting,  pick'd 
the  lance 

That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from 

those  dead  wolves 
Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each 

from  each, 
And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each 

on  each. 


AND  ENID, 

And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  tiie 

three 

Together,  and  said  to  her,  "Drive 
them  on 

Before  you,"  and  she  drove  them  thro* 
the  wood. 

He  follow'd  nearer  still :  the  pain 
she  had 

To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the 
^wood. 

Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling 
arms, 

Together,  served  a  little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her 
heart : 

And  they  themselves,  like  creatures 

gently  born 
But  into  bad  hands  fall'n,  and  now  so 

long 

By  bandits  groom'd,  prick'd  their  light 
ears,  and  felt 

Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  govern- 
ment. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood 
they  past, 

And  issuing  under  open  heavens  be- 
held 

A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock, 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlike 
chased 

In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mow- 
ing in  it : 

And  down  a  rocky  pathway  from  the 
place 

There  came  afair-hair'd  youth,  that  in 
his  hand 

Bare  victual  for  the  mowers  :  and 
Geraint 

Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale  : 

Then,  moving  downward  to  the  mead- 
ow ground, 

He,  when  the  fair-hair'd  youth  came 
by  him,  said, 

**  Friend,  let  her  eat ;  the  damsel  is  so 
faint.'* 

Yea,  willingly,"  replied  the  youth  ; 
and  you, 

My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse. 
And  only  meet  for  mowers  ;  "  then  set 
down 

His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  tli« 

sward 

They  let  the  horses  graze,  and  at© 
themselves. 


GEIiAINT  AND  ENID. 


34S 


^-.nd  Enid  took  a  little  delicately, 
Less  having  etoinacli  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  loid's  pleasure  ;  but 
Geraint 

Ate  all  the  mowers'  victual  unawares, 
And  when  f  ound  u  i  empty,  was  amazed; 
And     Joy,"  sa,id  he,  "  1  have  eaten 

all,  bu+^  take 
A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon  ;  choose 

the  best." 
He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 
"  My  lord,  you  overpay  me  lifty-fold." 
"  Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  cried 

the  Prince. 
I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,"  said  the 

boy, 

"  Not  guerdon  ;  for  myself  can  easily. 
While  your  good  damsel  resls,  return, 
and  fetch 

Fresh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  our 
Earl ; 

For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is 
his. 

And  I  myself  am  his  ;  and  I  will  tell 
him 

How  great  a  man  you  are  :  he  loves  to 
know 

When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  terri- 
tory : 

And  he  will  have  you  to  his  palace 
here, 

And  serve  you  costlier  than  with  mow- 
ers' fare." 

Then  said  Geraint,  "I  wish  no  better 
fare  : 

I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 
Than  when  I  left  your  mowers  dinner- 
less. 

And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 
I  know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  pal- 
aces ! 

And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to  me. 
But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 
night. 

And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  us 
know." 

Yea,  my  kind  lord,"  said  the  glad 
youth,  and  went, 
Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  him- 
self a  knight, 
And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear'd, 
Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left 
alone. 


But  when  the  Prince  had  brought 

his  errant  eyes 
Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let 

them  glance 
At  Enid,  where  she  droopt  :  his  own 

false  doom, 
That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never 

cross 

Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he 
sigh'd ; 

Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  re- 
mark'd 

The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dimierless, 

And  watch'd  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turn- 
ing scythe, 

And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 

But  she,  remembering  her  old  rnin'd 
hall. 

And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 
About  her  hollow  turret,  pluck' d  the 
grass 

There  growing  longest  by  the  mead- 
ow's edge. 
And  into  many  a  listless  annulet, 
Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage 
ring, 

Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  re- 
turn'd 

And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they 
went ; 

Where,  after  saying  to  her,  "  If  ye  will, 
Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,"  to 
which 

She  answer'd,    Thanks,  my  lord  ;  "  the 

two  remain'd 
Apart  by  all  the  chamber's  width,  and 

mute 

As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault  of 
birth, 

Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a  shield, 
Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor 
glance 

The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along  the 
street, 

And  heel  against  the  pavement  echo- 
ing, burst 

Their  drowse  ;  and  either  started  while 
the  door, 

Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward 

to  the  wall. 
And  midmost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers. 
Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale, 
Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 


344 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


Enter'd,  the  wild  lord  of  the  place, 
Limours. 

He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness. 
Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  hut  stealthi- 
ly, 

In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and 

graspt  hand, 
Founa  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 
Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  goodly 

cheer 

To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sumptu- 
ously 

According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his 
friends, 

And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their 
earl ; 

And  care  not  for  the  cost ;  the  cost  is 
mine." 

And  wine  and  food  were  brought, 
and  Earl  Limours 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and 
told 

Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and 

play'd  upon  it. 
And  made  it  of  two  colors  ;  for  his  talk. 
When  wine  and  free  companions  kin- 
dled him, 

Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like  a 
gem 

Of  fifty  facets  ;  thus  he  moved  the 
Prince 

To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  ap- 
plause. 

Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry, 

ask'd  Limours, 
"Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the 

room,  and  speak 
To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits 

apart. 

And  seems  so  lonely?"  *'My  free 
leave  "  he  said  ; 
Get  her  to  speak :  she  does  not  speak 
to  me." 

Then  rose  Limours  and  looking  at  his 
feet, 

Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears 
may  fail, 

Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring 
eyes, 

Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter' d  whis- 
peringly : 

"  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 


Enid  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  turn'd  me 
wild — 

What  chance  is  this  ?  how  is  it  I  see  you 
here  ? 

You  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my 
power. 

Yet  fear  me  not :  I  call  mine  own  self 
wild, 

But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilder- 
ness. 

I  thought,  but  that  your  father  came 
between . 

In  former  day:  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  jiot  keep  it  back : 
Make  me  a  little  happier :  let  me  know 
iti 

Owe  y      me  nothing  for  a  life  half- 
lost? 

Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all 
you  are. 

And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I  see  it  with 
joy— 

You  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him, 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 
maid, 

To  serve  you — does  he  love  you  as  of 
old? 

For,  call  it  lovers'  quarrels,  yet  I  know 
Tho'  men  may  bicker  with  the  things 

they  love, 
They  would  not  make  them  laughable 

in  all  eyes. 
Not  while  they  loved  them  ;  and  your 

wretched  dress, 
A  wretched  insult  on  you,  dumbly 

speaks 

Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you  no 
more. 

Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now: 
A  common  chance— right  well  I  know 

it— pall'd— 
For  I  know  men  :  nor  will  ye  win  him 

back, 

For  the  man's  love  once  gone  never  re- 
turns. 

But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old ; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of 
old  : 

Good,  speak  the  word  :  my  followers 

ring  him  round  : 
Hs  sits  unarm'd ;  I  hold  a  finger  up  ; 
They  understand  :  no ;  I  do  not  mean 

blood  : 


GERAINl 

5<"or  need  you  loo'c  so  scared  at  what  I 
say  : 

My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a  moat. 
No  stronger  than  a  wall  :  there  is  the 
keep  ; 

He  shall  not  cross  us  more ;  speak  but 

the  word  : 
Or  speak  it  not ;  but  then  by  Him  that 

made  me 

The  one  true  lover  which  you  ever  had, 
I  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  T  have. 
O  pardon  me  !   the  madness  of  that 
hour, 

When  first  I  parted  from  you,  moves 
me  yet." 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own 
voice 

And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it. 
Made  his  eye  moist ;  but  Enid  fear'd 
his  eyes, 

Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from 
the  feast ; 

And  answer' d  with  such  craft  as  wo- 
men use, 

Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and 
said : 

Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  former 

years, 

And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with 
morn, 

And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  vio- 
lence ; 

Leave  me  to-night:  I  am  weary  to  the 
death." 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  bran- 
dish'd  plume 

Brushing  his  instep,  bow'd  the  all-am- 
orous Earl, 

And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  loud 
good-night. 

He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his 
men. 

How  Enid  never  loved  a  man  but  him, 
Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her 
lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Ge- 
raint. 

Debating  his  command  of  silence  given, 
And  that  she  now  perforce  must  violate 
it, 

Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 
she  held 

He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 


AKD  ENID.  545 

To  wake  him,  but  hung  o'er  him, 

wholly  pleased 
To  find  him  yet  unwcunded  after  fight, 
And  hear  him   breathing  low  and 

equally. 

Anon  she  rose,  and  stepping  lightly, 
heap'd 

The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place. 
All  to  be  there  against  a  sudden  need; 
Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  over- 
toil'd 

By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  ever- 
more 

Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn, 
and  then 

Went  slipping  down  horrible  precipices 
And  strongly  striking  out  her  limbs 
awoke  ; 

Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl 

at  the  door. 
With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 
Sound  on  a  dreadful  trumpet,  summon- 
ing her  ; 

Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to 
the  light. 

As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy 
world. 

And  glimmer'd  on  his  armor  in  the 
room. 

And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 
But  touch'd  it  unawares  :  jangling,  the 
casque 

Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at 
her. 

Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence 
given, 

She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours  had 
said, 

Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her 
not ; 

Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had 
used ; 

But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet. 
Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and 
seem'd 

So  justified  by  that  necessity, 
That  tho'  he  thought  "  was  it  for  him 
she  wept 

In  Devon?"  he  but  gave  a  wrathful 
groan. 

Saying  "  your  sweet  faces  make  good 

fellows  fools 
And  traitors.   Call  the  host  and  bid 

him  bring 
Charger  and  palfrey.**  So  she  glided  out 


346 


GERAINT  ANT>  ENID. 


Among  the  heavy  breathings  of  the 
house, 

And  like  a  household  Spirit  at  the 
walls 

Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and 
return' d  : 

Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho'  all 
unask'd, 

In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire  ; 
Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host 

and  cried, 
Thy  reckoning,  friend  ?  "  and  ere  he 

learnt  it,  *'  Take 
Five  horses  and  their  armors  ; "  and 

the  host. 

Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 
**My  lord,  I  scarce  have  spent  the 
worth  of  one  !  " 
Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  said 
the  Prince, 
And  then  to  Enid,    Forward  !  and  to- 
day 

I  charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially. 
What  thing  soever  ye  may  hear,  or  see. 
Or  fancy  (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  use 
To  charge  you)  that  ye  speak  not  but 
obey." 

And  Enid  answer'd,    Yea,  my  lord, 
I  know 

Your  wish,  and  would  obey  ;  but  riding 
first, 

I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not 
hear, 

I  see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see: 
Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that 

seems  hard ; 
Almost  beyond  me  :  yet  I  would  obey." 

Yea  so,"  said  he,  "  do  it:  be  not 

too  wise  ; 
Seeing  that  ye  are  wedded  to  a  man, 
Not  quite  mismated  with  a  yawning 

clown. 

But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head 

and  yours, 
With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however  far, 
Ajid  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his 

dreams." 

With  that  he  turn'd  and  look'd  as 

keenly  at  her 
As  careful  robins  eye  thedelver's  toil ; 
And  that  within  her,  which  a  wanton 

fool, 


Or  hasty  judger  would  have  call'd  hej 
guilt, 

Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eye- 
lid fall. 

And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  satis 
fied. 

Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beaten 
broad, 

Led  from  the  territory  of  false  Limours 
To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl. 
Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  call'a 
the  Bull, 

Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 
Once  she  look'd  back,  and  when  she 

saw  him  ride 
More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yester- 

morn. 

It  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful ;  till  Ge- 
raint 

Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should 

say 

Ye  watch  me,"  sadden'd  all  her  heart 
again. 

But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a  dewy 
blade. 

The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-galloping 
hoof 

Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round 
she  saw 

Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker 
in  it. 

Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest, 
And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he 
rode 

As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she 
held 

Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 
At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy, 
Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  bis 
word 

Was  in  a  manner  pleased,  and  turning, 
stood. 

And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Li- 
mours, 

Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thun- 
der-cloud 

Whoso  skirts  are  loosen'd  by  the  break- 
ing storm. 

Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he 
rode, 

And  all  in  passion  uttering  a  dry- 
shriek, 

Dash'd  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with 
him,  and  bore 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


347 


Iwwn  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm 
beyond 

U'he  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn'd 
or  dead, 

And  overthrew  the  next  that  followed 
him, 

And  blindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout  be- 
hind. 

But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  man 
They  vanisli'd  panic-stricken,  like  a 
shoal 

Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 
Adown  the  crystal  dykes  at  Camel ot 
Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on  the 
sand. 

But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 
But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sun. 
There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 
Betwixt  the   cressy  islets   white  in 
flower. 

So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the  man, 
Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the 
Earl, 

And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way  ; 
So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in 
wine. 

Then  like  a  stormy  sunlight  smiled 
Geraint, 

Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that 
fell 

Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wild- 
ly fly. 

Mixt  with  the  fliers.       Horse  and 

man,"  he  said, 
"  All  of  one  mind  and  all  right  honest 

friends  ! 

Not  a  hoof  left  :  and  I  methinks  till 
now 

Was  honest  —  paid  with  horses  and 

with  arms  ; 
I  cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg  : 
And  so  what  say  ye,  shall  we  strip  him 

there 

Your  lover  ?    has  your  palfrey  heart 
enough 

To  bear  his  armor?  shall  we  fast  or 
dine  ? 

No  ?  —  then  do  you,  being  right  hon- 
est, pray 

That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of 

Earl  Doorm, 
I  too  would  still  be  honest."   Thus  he 

said  : 

And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins. 


And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led 
the  way. 

But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful 
loss 

Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it  not, 
But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the 
loss 

So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to 
death  ; 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  being 
prick' d 

In  combat  with  the  followers  of  Li- 
mours, 

Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly. 
And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle  wife 
What  ail'dhim,  hardly  knowing  it  him- 
self. 

Till  his  eye  darken'd  and  his  helmet 
wagg'd ; 

And  at  a  sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 
Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  grass. 
The  Prince,  without  a  word,  from  his 
horse  fell. 

And  Enid  heard  the  crashing  of  his 
fall, 

Suddenly  came,  and  ^,t  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of 
his  arms. 

Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue 
eye 

Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  his 
wound. 

And  tearing  off  her  vei]  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blister- 
ing sun, 

And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain'd  her 

dear  lord's  life. 
Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could 

do, 

She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded 
her, 

For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbu- 
lence, 

A  woman  weeping  for  her  murder' d 
mate 

Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a  summer 
shower  : 

One  took  him  for  a  victim  of  Earl 
Doorm, 

Nor  dared  to  waste  a  perilous  pity  on 
him : 


348 


GERAINT  AND  ENID, 


Another  hurrying  past,  a  man-at-arms, 
Rode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl ; 
Half  whistling  and  half   singing  a 

coarse  song, 
He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless 

eyes. 

Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of 
Doorm 

Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in 
his  fear ; 

At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted 
heel, 

And  scour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was 
lost. 

While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved 
like  a  man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge 
Earl  Doorm, 
Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  rus- 
set beard, 

Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey. 
Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up; 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a 
ship. 

Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "  What,  is 
he  dead?" 
No,  no,  not  dead  ! "  she  answered  in 
all  haste. 

"  Would  some  of  your  kind  people 

take  him  up. 
And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel 

sun : 

Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  lie  is  not 
dead." 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm  ;    Well  i?  he 
be  not  dead. 
Why  wail  ye  for  him  thus  ?  ye  seem  a 
child. 

And  be  he  dead,  I  count  you  for  a  fool; 
Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him  : 

dead  or  not, 
Ye  mar  a  comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely — some  of 

you. 

Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to 
our  hall : 

An  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our 
band  ; 

And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth 
enough 

To  hide  him.   See  ye  take  the  charger 

too, 
A  noble  one." 


He  spake,  and  past  away, 
But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  wh« 

advanced, 
Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his 

good  bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village 

boys 

Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he 
fears 

To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot 
upon  it, 

Gnawing  and  growling  :  so  the  ruffians 
growl'd, 

Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a  dead  man, 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morn- 
ing's raid ; 
Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a  litter- 
bier. 

Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  fo- 
rays out 

For  those  that  might  be  wounded ;  laid 
him  on  it 

All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and 

jfcook 

And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of 
Doorm, 

(His  gentle  charger  following  him  un- 

led) 

And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he 
lay 

Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall. 
And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as 
before. 

And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the 

dead  man. 
And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own 

souls,  and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her  :  she 

was  deaf 

To  blessing  and  to  cursing  save  from 
one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her 
lord. 

There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his 
head. 

And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  call- 
ing to  him. 

And  at  the  last  he  waken'd  from  his 
swoon, 

And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping 
his  head. 

And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  call- 
ing to  him ; 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


349 


And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his 

face  ; 

And  said  to  his  own  heart,    she  weeps 
for  me  : " 

And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign'd  himself 
as  dead, 

That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  utter- 
most. 

And  say  to  his  own  heart    she  weeps 
for  me." 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to 
the  hall. 

His  lusty  spearmen  follow'd  him  with 
noise  : 

Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  things 
that  rang 

Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance 
aside. 

And  doff 'd  his  helm  :  and  then  there 

fiutter'd  in, 
Half-bold,  half-frighted,  with  dilated 

eyes, 

A  tribe  of  women,  dress'd  in  many 
hues, 

And  mingled  with  the  spearmen  :  and 

Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against 

the  board, 
And  call'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed 

his  spears. 
And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and 

quarter  beeves, 
And  all  the  h^ll  was  dim  with  steam  of 

flesh  : 

And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down 
at  once. 

And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked 
hall, 

Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear 

them  feed ; 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself. 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless 

tribe. 

But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he 
would. 

He  roll'd  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and 
found 

A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 
Then  he  remember'd  her,  and  how  she 
wept ; 

And  out  of  her  there  came  a  power 

upon  him  ; 
And  rising  on  a  sudden,  he  said,  "  Eat ! 


I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  pale. 
God's  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see 

you  weep. 
Eat !   Look  yourself.   Good  luck  had 

your  good  man. 
For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep 

for  me  ? 

Sweet  lady,  never  since  I  first  drew 
breath. 

Have  I  beheld  a  lily  like  yourself. 
And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your 
cheek. 

There  is  not  one  among  my  gentle- 
women 

Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper  for  a 
glove. 

But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  ruled, 
And  I  will  do  the  thing  I  have  not 
done. 

For  you  shall  share  my  earldom  with 
me,  girl, 

And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one 
nest, 

And  I  will  fetch  you  forage  from  all 
fields. 

For  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will." 

He  spoke  :  the  brawny  spearman  let 
his  cheek 

Bulge  with  the  unswallow'd piece, and 
turning  stared ; 

While  some,  whose  souls  the  old  ser- 
pent long  had  drawn 

Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the 
wither'd  leaf. 

And  makes  it  earth,  hiss'd  each  at 
other's  ear 

What  shall  not  be  recorded  —  women 
they. 

Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gra- 
cious things. 

But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their 
best. 

Yea,  would  have  help'd  him  to  it :  and 

all  at  once 
They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought 

of  them. 

But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek 
head  yet 

Drooping,  "  I  pray  you  of  your  cour- 
tesy, 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 
She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard  her 


350 

But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  done  so  gra- 
ciously, 

Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him, 

adding,  "yea, 
Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I  account  you 

mine." 

She  answer'd  meekly,     How  should 
I  be  glad 

Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  any- 
thing, 

Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon 
me  ?  " 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon 
her  talk. 

As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing;  suddenly  seized 
on  her, 

And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the 
board. 

And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  crying, 
Eat." 

No,  no,"  said  Enid,  vext,     I  will 
not  eat. 

Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 

And  eat  with  me."      Drink,  then,"  he 
answer'd.      Here  !  " 

(And  flll'd  a  horn  with  wine  and  held 
it  to  her,) 
Lo  !  1,  myself,  when  flush'd  with 
fight,  or  hot, 

God's  curse,  with  anger — often  I  my- 
self. 

Before  I  well  have  drunken,  scarce  can 
eat : 

Drink  therefore  and   the  wine  will 
change  your  will." 

*'  Not  so,"  she  cried,     by  Heaven,  I 
will  not  drink, 
Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do 
it, 

And  drink  with  me  ;  and  if  he  rise  no 
more, 

I  will  not  look  at  wine  until  I  die." 

At  this  he  turn'd  all  red  and  paced 
his  hall, 

Now  gnaw'd  his  under,  now  his  upper 
lip, 

And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at 
last ; 

**Girl,  for  I  see  you  scorn  my  courte- 
sies, 


GERAmTfiND  ENID. 


Take  warning  :  yonder  man  is  surely 

dead ; 

And  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 
Not  eat  nor  drink?    And  wherefore 

wail  for  one, 
Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and 

scorn 

By  dressing  it  in  rags  ?  Amazed  am  I, 
Beholdinghow  ye  butt  against  my  wish. 
That  I  forbear  you  thus  :  cross  me  no 
more. 

At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor 
gown, 

This  silken  rag,  this  beggar-woman's 
weed  : 

I  love  that  beauty  should  go  beauti- 
fully : 

For  see  ye  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of 
one. 

Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go  beau- 
tifully ! 

Rise  therefore  ;  robe  yourself  in  this  : 
obey." 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentle- 
women 

Display'd  a  splendid  silk  of  foreign 
loom, 

Where  like  a  shoaling  sea  the  lovely 
blue 

Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  down 
the  front 

With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops 
of  dew. 

When  all  night  long  a  cloud  clings  to 
the  hill, 

And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the 
day 

Strike  where  it  clung  :  so  thickly  shone 
the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer'd,  harder  to  be 
moved 

Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of 
power. 

With  life-long  injuries  burning  una- 
venged. 

And  now  their  hour  has  come  ;  and 
Enid  said  : 

"  In  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord 
found  me  first, 
And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father'i 
hall : 


In  thi-i  poor  gown  I  rode  with  Mm  to 
court, 

And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like 
the  sun  : 

In  this  poor  gown  he  hade  me  clothe 
myself, 

When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal 
quest  ,        •  - 

Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be 
gain'd :  .  ^ 

And  this  poor  gown  I  will  not  cast 
aside 

Until  himself  arise  a  living  man, 
And  bid  me  cast  it.   I  have  griefs 
enough  : 

Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  be : 
I  never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him  : 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentle- 
ness, 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and 
down  his  hall. 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his 
teeth  ; 

Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his 
mood 

Crying,  "  I  count  it  of  no  more  avail. 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with 
you ; 

Take  my  salute,"  unknightly  with  flat 
hand, 

However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the 
cheek. 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helpless- 
ness, 

And  since  she  thought,  "  he  had  not 

dared  to  do  it. 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was 

dead," 

Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter 
cry, 

As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap, 
Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro' 
the  wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at 

his  sword, 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield,) 
Made  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a 

sweep  of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like 

a  ball 

The  russet-bearded  head  roll'd  on  the 
floor.  i 


GERAINT  AND  ENID.  351 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted 
dead.  ^    ^  „ 

And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  hall 
Rose  when  they  saw  the  dead  man  rise, 
and  fled 

Yelling  as  from  a  spectre,  and  the  two 
Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said  : 


"  Enid,  I  have  used  you  worse  than 

that  dead  man ; 
Done  you  more  wrong  :  we  both  hav« 

undergone 
That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thric* 

your  own  : 
Henceforward  I  will  rather  die  than 

doubt. 

And  here  1  lay  this  penance  on  myself, 
Not,  tho'  mine  own  ears  heard  you 

y  ester-morn — 
You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I  heard 

you  say, 

I  heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true 
wife  : 

I  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in 
it : 

I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than 
doubt." 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender 
word. 

She  felt  so  blunt  and  stupid  at  the 
heart : 

She  only  prayed  him,     Fly,  they  will 
return 

And  slay  you  :  fly,  your  charger  is 
without. 

My  palf  ry  lost."    "  Then,  Enid,  shall 
yon  ride 

Behind  me."    "  Yea,"  said  Enid,  "  let 
us  go." 

And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately 
horse. 

Who  now  no  more  a  vassal  to  the  thief. 
But  free  to  stretch  its  limbs  in  lawful 
fight. 

Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came 

and  stoop' d 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair ; 

and  she 

Kiss'd  tbe  white  star  upon  Ms  nobl« 
front. 

Glad  also  ;  then  Geraint  upon  the  horse 
Mounted,  and  reach' d  a  hand,  and  oo 
his  foot 


352 


GERAINT  AND  ENID, 


She  set  het  own  and  climb'd ;  he  turn'd 
his  face 

And  kiss'd  her  climbing,  and  she  cast 
her  arms 

About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode 
away. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Para- 
dise 

O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew, 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind 
Than  lived  thro'  her,  who  in  that  per- 
ilous hour 
put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  hus- 
band's heart, 
And  felt  him  hers  again  :  she  did  not 
weep, 

But  o'er  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy 
mist 

lake  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden 
green 

Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain  : 
Yet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue 
eyes 

As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path, 
Eight  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit  hold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  who  laid 
his  lance 

In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon 
him. 

Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of 
blood, 

She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had 
chanced, 

Shriek'd  to  the  stranger,  "  Slay  not  a 

dead  man  ! " 
**  The  voice  of  Enid,"  said  the  knight; 

but  she, 

Beholding  it  was  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd, 
Was  moved  so  much  the  more,  and 

shriek'd  again, 
•*0  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you 

life." 

And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward 
spake  : 

•*My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  vou  with  all 
love ; 

I  took  you  for  a  bandit  knight  of 
Doorm ; 

And  fear  not,  Enid,  I  should  fall  upon 
him. 

Who  love  you.  Prince,  with  something 

of  the  love 
Wherewith  we  love  the  Heaven  that 

chastens  us. 


For  once,  when  I  was  up  so  high  in 
pride 

That  I  was  halfway  down  the  slope  to 
Hell, 

By  overthrowing  me  you  threw  me 
higher. 

Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table 
Round, 

And  since  I  knew  this  Earl,  when  I  my- 
self 

Was  half  a  bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 
I  come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to 
Doorm 

(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding 
him 

Disband  himself,  ^nd  scatter  all  his 
powers. 

Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the 
King." 

He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King 

of  Kings," 
Cried  the  wan  Prince  ;    And  lo  the 

powers  of  Doorm 
Are  scatter' d,"  and  he  pointed  to  the 

field. 

Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on 

mound  and  knoll. 
Were  men  and  women  staring  and 


Wliile  some  yet  fled ;  and  then  he 

plainlier  told 
How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his 

hall. 

But  when  the  knight  besought  him, 

Follow  me, 
Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King's 
own  ear 

Speak  what  has  chanced;  ye  surely 
have  endured 

Strange  chances  here  alone ; "  that 
other  flush'd, 

And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in  re- 
ply. 

Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless 
King, 

And   after  madness   acted  question 

Till  Edyrn  crying,  "  If  ye  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to 
you," 

"Enough,"  he  said, "  I  follow,"  and 

they  went, 
But  Eidd   m  tneir  going  had  two 

fears. 


GERAINT u 

Dne  from  the  bandit  scatter'd  in  the 
field, 

And  one  from  Edyrn.   Every  now  and 
then, 

When  Edyrn  rein'd  his  charger  at  her 
side, 

She  shrank  a  little.   In  a  hollow  land, 
From  which  old  fires  have  broken,  men 
may  fear 

Fresh  fire  and  ruin.   He,  perceiving, 
said : 

"  Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that  most 
had  cause 
To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I  am 
changed. 

Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause 
to  make 

My  nature's  prideful  sparkle  in  the 
blood 

Break  into  furious  flame ;  being  re- 
pulsed 

By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I  schemed  and 
wrought 

Until  I  overturn' d  him  ;  then  set  up 
(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my 
heart) 

My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a  para- 
mour ; 

Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair, 
And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism, 
So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  I  believed  my- 
self 

Unconquerable,  for  I  was  wellnigh 
mad  : 

And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in  these 
jousts, 

I  should  have  slain  your  father,  seized 
yourself. 

I  lived  in  hope  that  sometime  you 

would  come 
To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best 

you  loved  ; 
And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your  meek 

blue  eyes. 
The  truest  eyes  that  ever  answer' d 

heaven, 

behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on 
him. 

Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  orpray'd 
to  me, 

X  should  not  less  have  kill'd  him.  And 

you  came, — 
But  once  you  came,— and  with  your 

own  true  eyes 


[ND  ENID,  363 

Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as 
one 

Speaks  of  a  service  done  him)  over- 
throw 

My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three 
years  old. 

And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give  me 
life. 

There  was  1  broken  down  ;  there  was  I 
saved  ; 

Tho'  thence  I  rode  all-shamed,  hating 
the  life 

He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 
And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid 
upon  me 

Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  her  court; 
Where  first  as  sullen  as  a  beast  new- 
caged. 

And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a  wolf. 
Because  I  knew  my  deeds  were  known, 
I  found. 

Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 
Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence, 
Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a 
grace 

Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I  began 
To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former  life, 
And  find  that  it  had  been  the  wolf's 
indeed  : 

And  oft  I  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high 
saint. 

Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory. 
Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentle- 
ness, 

Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhood, 

makes  a  man. 
And  you  were  often  there  about  the 

Queen, 

But  saw  me  not,  or  mark'd  not  if  you 
saw ; 

Nor  did  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with 
you. 

But   kept   myself  aloof  till  I  was 
changed ; 

And  fear  not,  cousin ;  I  am  changed 
indeed.'* 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed, 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend 
or  foe. 

There  most  in  those  who  most  have 

done  them  ill. 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  camp  the 

King  himself 


354  GERAINT 

Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  behold- 
ing her 

Tho'  pale,  yet  happy,  ask'd  her  not  a 
word, 

But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he 
held 

In  converse  for  a  little,  and  returned. 
And,  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from 
horse. 

And  kiss'd  her  with   all  pureness, 

brother-like, 
And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted 

her. 

And  glancing  for  a  minute,  till  he  saw 
her 

Pass  into  it,  turn'd  to  the  Prince,  and 
said : 

Prince,  when  of  late  ye  pray'd  me 
for  my  leave 
To  move  to  your  own  land  and  there 
defend 

Your  marches,  I  was  prick'd  with  some 
reproof. 

As  one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate 
and  be. 

By  having  look'd  too  much  thro'  alien 
eyes. 

And  wrought  too  long  with  delegated 
hands. 

Not  used  mine  own  :  but  now  behold 
me  come 

To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all 

my  realm, 
With  Edyrn  and  with  others  :  have  ye 

look'd 

At  Edyrn?  have  ye  seen  how  nobly 
changed  ? 

This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonder- 
ful. 

jtfis  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is 
changed. 

/he  world  will  not  believe  a  man  re- 
pents : 

And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly 
right. 

Full  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious 
quitch 

Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of 
him, 

And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself 
afresh. 

Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  1  will  weed  this  land  before  I  go. 


AND  ENID. 

I,  therefore,  made  him  of  our  TabU 
Round, 

Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  every* 

way 

One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous. 
Sanest  and  most  obedient :  and  indeed 
This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon 

hims-elf 

After  a  life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 
A  thousand-fold  more  great  and  won- 
ful 

Then  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking 
his  life, 

My  subject  with  my  subjects  under 
him. 

Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a 
realm 

Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by 
one, 

And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to 
the  death." 

So  spake  the  King ;  low  bow'd  the 
Prince,  and  felt 
His  work  was  neither  great  nor  won- 
derful, 

And  past  to  Enid's  tent ;  and  thither 
came 

The  King's  own  leech  to  look  into  his 
hurt ; 

And  Enid  tended  on  him  there  ;  and 
there 

Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and 

the  breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over 

him, 

Fill'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his 
blood 

With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper 
love, 

As  the  south-west  that  blowing  Bala 
lake 

Fills  ali  the  sacred  Dee.   So  past  the 
days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of  his 
hurt. 

The  blameless  King  went  forth  and 

cast  his  eyes 
On  each  of  all  whom  Uther  left  in 

charge 

Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the 
King  : 

He  look'd  and  found  them  wanting; 
and  as  now 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


355 


Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berk- 
shire hills 

To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  here- 
tofore, 

He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 
Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink'd 
at  wrong, 

And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a  stronger 
race 

With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a 
thousand  men 

To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  every- 
where 

Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the 
law, 

And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and 
cleansed  the  land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again, 
they  past 

With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 

There  the  great  Queen  once  more  em- 
braced her  friend, 

And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the 
day. 

And  tho'  Geraint  could  never  take 
again 

That   comfort  from   their  converse 

which  he  took 
Before   the  Queen's  fair  name  was 

breathed  upon. 
He  rested  well  content  that  all  was 

well. 

Thence  after  tarrying  for  a  space  they 
rode. 

And  fifty  kuights  rode  with  them  to  the 
shores 

Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own 
land. 

And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the 
King 

So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  and  the  spiteful  whisper 
died  : 

And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 
And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament. 
They  call'd  him  the  great  Prince  and 

man  of  men. 
But  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to 

call 

Enid  the  Fair,  a  grateful  people  named 
Bnid  the  Good ;  and  in  their  halls 
arose 

The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Ger- 
aints 


Of  times  to  be  ;  nor  did  h«  doubt  her 
more 

But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern 
Sea 

In  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless 
King. 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 

A  STORM  was  coming,  but  the  winds 

were  still, 
And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow  huge  and  old 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  mason  work, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur's 
court : 

She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard 

in  thought 
Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name 

was  named. 
For  once,  when  Arthur  walking  all 

alone, 

Vext  at  a  rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 
Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted 
fair. 

Would  fain  have  wrought  upon  his 

cloudy  mood 
With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken 

voice. 

And  flutter' d  adoration,  and  at  last 
With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who 

prized  him  more 
Than  who  should  prize  him  most ;  at 

which  the  King 
Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone 

by  : 

But  one  had  watch'd,  and  had  not  held 

his  peace  : 
It  made  the  laughter  of  one  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blame- 
less King. 
And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 
Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those 
times, 

Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all 

their  arts, 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships, 

and  halls. 

Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry 
heavens ; 


356 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEX. 


The  people  call'd  him  Wizard  ;  whom 
at  first 

She   play'd   about  with  slight  and 

sprightly  talk, 
And  vivid  smiles,  and  faintly-venom'd 

points 

Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  gazing 
there ; 

And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods, 
the  Seer 

Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and 
play. 

E'en  when  they  seem'd  unlovable,  and 
laugh 

As  those  that  watch  a  kitten  ;  thus  he 
grew 

Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain'd,  and 
she. 

Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  dis- 
dain'd, 

Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver 
fits, 

Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when 

they  met 

Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon 
him 

With  such  a  fixt  devotion,  that  the  old 
man, 

Tho'  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at 
times 

Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for 
love, 

And  half  believe  her  true  :  for  thus  at 
times 

He  waver' d ;  but  that  other  clung  to 
him, 

Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons 
went. 

Then  fell  upon  him  a  great  melan- 
choly ; 

And  leaving  Arthur's  court  he  gain'd 

the  beach ; 
There  found  a  little  boat,  and  stept 

into  it ; 

And  Vivien  follow'd,  but  he  mark'd 
her  not. 

She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ;  the 
boat 

Drave  with  a  sudden  wind  across  the 


And  touching  Breton  sand8,they  disem- 
bark'd. 

And  then  she  follow'd  Merlin  all  the 
way, 

Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 


For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a 
charm, 

The  which  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 
With  woven  paces  and  with  waving 
arms. 

The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem'd  to 
lie 

Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow 
tower, 

From  which  was  no  escape  for  ever- 
more ; 

And  none  could  find  that  man  for  ever- 
more, 

Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought 

the  charm 
Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 

fame. 

And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  th* 
charm 

Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 
As  fancying,  that  her  glory  would  be 
great 

According  to  his  greatness  whom  she 
quench' d. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and 

kiss*d  his  feet, 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair  ;  a 

robe 

Of  samite  without  price,  that  more 
exprest 

Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome 
limbs, 

In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of 
March  : 

And  while  she  kiss'd  them,  crying, 

"  Trample  me. 
Dear  feet,  that  I  have  follow'd  thro* 

the  world. 
And  I  will  pay  you  worship  ;  tread  me 

down 

And  I  will  kiss  you  for  it ;  *'  he  was 
mute  : 

So  dark  a  forethought  roU'd  about  his 
brain. 

As  on  a  dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long 
sea-hall 

In  silence  :  wherefore,  when  she  lifted 
up 

A  face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and 
said. 


"  O  Merlin,  do  ye  love  me  ? 
again, 

O  Merlin,  do  ye  love  me  ?  "  and  once 
more, 

''Great  Master,  do  ye  love  me?  "lie 

was  mute. 
And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his 

heel, 

Writhed  toward  him,  slided  up  his 

knee  and  sat. 
Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow 

feet 

Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his 
neck. 

Clung  like  a  snake;  and  letting  her 
left  hand 

Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder,  as  a 
leaf. 

Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl  to 
part 

The  lists  of  such  a  beard  as  youth  gone 
out 

Had  left  in  ashes  :  then  he  spoke  and 
said, 

Not  looking  at  her,  who  are  wise  in 
love 

Love  most,  say  least,"  and  Vivien  an- 

swer'd  quick, 
"  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur's  arras  hall  at  Cameiot  : 
But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue— O  stupid 

child ! 

Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it  ;  let  me 
think 

Silence  is  wisdom  :  I  am  silent  then 
And  ask  no  kiss  ;  "  then  adding  all  at 
once, 

*'  And  lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wis- 
dom," drew 

The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his 
beard 

Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her 
knee, 

And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  fly 
Caught  in  a  great  old  tyrant  spider's 
web. 

Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild 
wood 

Without  one  word.  So  Vivien  call'd 
herself, 

But  rather  seem'd  a  lovely  baleful  star 
Veil'd  in  gray   vapor;  till  he  sadly 
smiled  : 

To  what  request  for  what  strange 
boon,"  he  said 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 
and 


357 


"  Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and  fool- 
eries, 

0  Vivien,tlie  preamble  ?yet  my  thanks, 
For  these  have  broken  up  my  melan- 
choly." 

And  Vivien  answer*d  smiling  saucily, 
"  What,  O  my  Master,  have  ye  found 
your  voice  ? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.  Thanks 

at  last ! 

But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip. 
Except  indeed  to  drink  :  no  cup  had 
we : 

In  mine  own  lady  palms  I  cull'd  the 
spring 

That  gather'd  trickling  dropwise  from 
the  cleft. 

And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my 
hands 

And  off  er'd  you  it  kneeling  :  then  ye 
drank 

And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one 

poor  word  ; 
O  no  more  thanks  than  might  a  goat 

have  given 
With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a 

beard. 

And  when  we  halted  at  that  other  well, 
And  I  was  faint  to  swooning,  and  ye 
lay 

Foot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of 
those 

Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did 

you  know 
That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before 

her  own  ? 
And  yet  no  thanks  :  and  all  thro'  this 

wild  wood 
And  all  this  morning  when  I  fondled 

you  : 

Boon,  yes,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not 

so  strange — 
How  had  I  wrong'd  you  ?  surely  you 

are  wise, 

But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than 
kind." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 

and  said  ; 
O  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 
And  watch  the  curl'd  white  of  the 

coming  wave 
Glass'd  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it 
breaks  ? 


358  MERLm  AHi 

Ev'n  such  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasura- 
ble, 

Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful 
mood. 

Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to 
fall. 

And  then  I  rose  and  fled  from  Arthur's 
court 

To  break  the  mood.    You  follow' d  me 
unask'd  ; 

And  when  I  look'd,  and  saw  you  follow- 
ing still. 

My  mind  involved  yourself  the  nearest 
thing 

In  that  mind-mist :  for  shall  I  tell  you 
truth  ? 

You  seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break 
upon  me 

And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the 
world, 

My  use  and  name  and  fame.  Your 

pardon,  child. 
Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten'd  all 

again. 

And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  you 
thrice, 

Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion, 
next 

For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected, 
last 

For  these  your  dainty  gambols  :  where- 
fore'ask  ; 

And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not 
so  strange." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  mourn- 
fully ; 

**  O  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking 
it, 

Nor  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself 

are  strange, 
Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood 

of  yours. 

I  ever  fear'd  ye  were  not  wholly  mine  ; 
And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  ye  did 

me  wrong. 
The  people  call  you  prophet :  let  it  be 
But  not  of  those  that  can  expound 

themselves. 
Take  Vivien  for  expounder  :  she  will 

call 

That  three-day-long  presageful  gloom 
of  yours 

No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrusfnl 
mood 


D  VIVIEN. 

That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than 
yourself 

Whenever  I  have  ask'd  this  very  boon, 
No<v  ask'd  again  :  for  see  you  not, 

dear  love, 
That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately 

gloom'd 

Your  fancy  when  you  saw  me  follow- 
ing you. 

Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you 

are  not  mine, 
Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to  prove 

you  mine. 
And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn 

this  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands. 
As  proof  of  trust.    O  Merlin,  teach  it 

me. 

The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  us  both 
to  rest. 

For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upon 

your  fate, 
I,  feeling  that  you   felt  me  worthy 

trust, 

Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing 

you  mine. 
And  therefore  be  as  great  as  you  are 

named. 

Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reti- 
cence. 

How  hard  you  look  and  how  denyingly ! 
O,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 
That  i  should  prove  it  on  you  unawares, 
To  make  you  lose  your  use  and  name 

and  fame. 
That  makes  me  most  indignant ;  then 

our  bond 

Had  best  be  loosed  for  ever  :  but  think 
or  not, 

By  Heaven  that  hears  I  tell  you  the 

clean  truth. 
As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as 

milk  : 

O  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 
If  these  unwitty  wandering  wits  of 
mine, 

Ev'n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a  dream, 
Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treach- 
ery— 

May  this  hard  earth  cleave  to  the  Nadir 
hell 

Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip 
me  flat, 

If  I  be  such  a  traitress.    Yield  my 
boon, 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


359 


Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  you  all  I 
am  ; 

And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish, 
The  great  proof  of  your  love  :  because 
I  think, 

However  wise,  ye  hardly  know  me  yet." 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from 

hers  and  said, 
I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
Too  curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of 
trust, 

Than  when  I  told  you  first  of  such  a 
charm. 

Yea,  if  ye  talk  of  trust  I  tell  you  this. 
Too  much  I  trusted,  when  I  told  you 
that. 

And  stirr'd  this  vice  in  you  which 

ruin'd  man 
Thro'  woman  the  first  hour  ;  for  how- 

soe'er 

In  children  a  great  curiousness  be 
well. 

Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all 

the  world. 
In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I  find 
Your  face  is  practised,  when  I  spell  the 

lines, 

T  call  it, — well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice  : 
But  since  you  name  yourself  the  sum- 
mer fly, 

I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the 
gnat, 

That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten 
back 

Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weari- 
ness : 

But  since  I  will  not  yield  to  give  you 
power 

Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and 
fame, 

Why  will  you  never  ask  some  other 
boon '? 

Yea,  by  God's  rood,  I  trusted  you  too 
much." 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-heart- 
ed  maid 

That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile. 
Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with 
tears. 

Nay,  master,  be  not  wrathful  with 
your  maid  ; 
Caress  her  :  let  her  feel  herself  for- 
given 


Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another 
boon. 

I  think  you  hardly  know  the  tender 
rhyme 

Of  '  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 
I  heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it 
once, 

And  it  shall  answer  for  me.   Listen  to 
it. 

'  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be 
ours, 

Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal 
powers : 

Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

'  It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music 
mute, 

And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

'  The  little  rift  within  the  lover's 
lute 

Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders 
all. 

*  It  is  not  worth  the  keeping  :  let  it 
go: 

But  shall  it  ?  answer,  darling,  answer, 
no. 

And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 
O  master,    do    ye  love  my  tender 

rhyme  ?  " 
And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed 

her  true. 

So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her 
face. 

So  sweetly  gleam' d  her  eyes  behind  her 
tears 

Like  sunlight  on  the  plain  behind  a 
shower : 

And  yet  he  answer'd  half  indignantly. 

Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I 
heard 

By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where 
we  sit  : 

For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve 
of  us. 

To  chase  a  creature  that  was  current 
then 

In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with 

golden  horns. 
It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question 

rose 

About  the  founding  of  a  Table  Round, 


3G0 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN, 


Tliat  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and 
men 

And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  aU  tbe 
world. 

And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited  one,the  youngest 
of  us, 

We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he 
flash'd, 

And  into  such  a  song,  such  fire  for 
fame, 

Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming 
down 

To  such  a  stern  and  iron-clashing  close, 
That  when  he  stopt  we  long'd  to  hurl 
together, 

And  should  have  done   it ;   but  the 

beauteous  beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our 

feet, 

And  like  a  silver  shadow  >;lipt  away 
Thro'  the  dim  land  ;  and  all  day  long 
we  rode 

Thro'  the  dim  land  against  a  rushing 
wind, 

That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our 
ears, 

And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  golden 
horns 

Until  they  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 
That  laughs  at  iron— as  our  warriors 
did— 

Where  children  cast  their  pins  and 

nails,  and  cry, 
*  Laugh,  little  well,'  but  touch  it  with 

a  sword, 

It  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point ;  and 
there 

We  lost  him :  such  a  noble  song  was 
that. 

But,  Vivien,  when  you  sang  me  that 

sweet  rhyme, 
I  felt  as  tho'  you  knew  this  cursed 

charm, 

Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I  lay 
And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name 
and  fame." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  mourn- 
fully ; 

**0  mine  have  ebb'd  away  for  ever- 
more, 

And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this 

wila  wood, 
Because  I  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 


Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men  !  th«5 

never  mount 
As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 
And  touching  fame,  howe'er  ye  scorn 

my  song, 

Take  one  verse  more— the  lady  speaks 
it— this  : 

'  My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is 

'closelier  mine. 
For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that 

fame  were  thine, 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that 

shame  were  mine. 
So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 
"Says  she  not  well?  and  there  is 

more — this  rhyme 
Is  like  the  fair  pearl-necklace  of  the 

Queen, 

That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls 

were  spilt ; 
Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics 

kept. 

But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister 
pearls 

Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss 

each  other 
On  her  white  neck— so  is  it  with  this 
rhyme  : 

It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands. 
And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differ 
ently  ; 

Yet  is  there  one  true  line  the  pearl  of 
pearls  ; 

*Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman 

wakes  to  love,' 
True  :  Love,  tho'  Love  were  of  the 

grossest,  carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
And  uses,  careless  of  the  rest ;  but 

Fame 

The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  nothing 
to  us  ; 

And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half-dis- 
fame, 

And  counterchanged  with  darkness? 

you  yourself 
Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's 

son, 

And  since  you  seem  the  Master  of  all 
Art, 

They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of 
all  Vice." 
And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 
and  said, 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


361 


"  I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed, 
And  found  a  fair  young  squire  who  sat 
alone. 

Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield 
of  wood, 

And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied 
arms, 

Azure,  an  Eagle  rising  or,  the  Sun 
In  dexter  chief  ;  the  scroll  '  I  follow 
fame.' 

And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over 
him, 

I  took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the 
bird, 

And  made  a  Gardener  putting  in  a 
graff. 

With  this  for  motto,  '  Rather  use  than 
fame.' 

You  should  have  seen  him  blush ;  but 

afterwards 
He  made  a  stalwart  knight.  O  Vivien, 
For  you,  methinks  you  think  you  love 

me  well ; 

For  me,  1  love  you  somewhat ;  rest : 
and  Love 

Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in 
himself. 

Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon. 
To  prurient  for  a  proof  against  the 
grain 

Of  him  you  say  you  love  :  but,  Fame 
with  men, 

Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve  man- 
kind, 

Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in 
herself. 

But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love, 
That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to 
one. 

Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame 
again 

Increasing  gave  me  use.  Lo,  there  my 
boon ! 

What  other  ?  for  men  sought  to  prove 
me  vile. 

Because  I  wish'd  to  give  them  greater 
minds  : 

And  then^^did  Envy  call  me  Devil's 
son  : 

The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help 
herself 

By  striking  at  her  better,  miss'd,  and 
brought 

Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her 
own  heart. 


Sweet  were  the  days  when  I  was  aD  un- 
known. 

But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the 

storm 

Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared 
not  for  it. 

Rigjit  well  know  I  that  Fame  is  half- 
disfame, 

Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.  That 

other  fame. 
To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children, 

vague, 

The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the 
grave, 

I  cared  not  for  it :  a  single  misty  star. 
Which  is  the  second  in  a  line  of  stars 
That  seem  a  sword  beneath  a  belt  of 
three, 

I  never  gazed  upon  it  but  I  dreamt. 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that 
star 

To  make  fame  nothing.  Wherefore,  if 
I  fear, 

Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro'  this 
charm, 

That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having 
power. 

However  well  you  think  you  love  me 
now 

(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 
Have  turn'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came 
to  power) 

I  rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than 
fame ; 

If  you— and  not  so  much  from  wicked- 
ness. 

As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a  mood 
Of  overstrain'd  affection,  it  may  be, 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or  else 
A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  jealousy, — 
Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  you 
say  you  love." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  as  in 
wrath. 

" Have  I  not  sworn?  I  am  not  tmsted. 
Good! 

Well,  hide  it,  hide  it;  I  shall  find  it 
out; 

And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger 
born 

Of  your   misfaith;   and   your  fine 
epithet 


Is  accurate  too,  for  tMs  full  love  of 
mine 

Without  the  full  heart  back  may  merit 
well 

Your  term  of  overstrain'd.   So  used 
as  I, 

My  daily  wonder  is,  I  love  at  all. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealousy,  O  why 
not? 

0  to  what  end,  except  a  jealous  one, 
And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I  love. 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  your- 
self ? 

1  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
Ye  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and 

there, 

Closed  in  the  four  walls  ot  a  hoilow 

tower 

From  which  is        escape  loi  ever- 
more." 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  an- 
swer'd  her. 
**  Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was 
mine, 

I  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them 
mine 

But  youth  and  love ;  and  that  full 

heart  of  yours 
Whereof  you  prattle,  may  now  assure 

you  mine  ; 
So  live  uncharm'd.   For  those  who 

wrought  it  lirst, 
Tho  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that 

waved, 

The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle- 
bones 

Who  paced  it  ages,  back  :  but  will  ye 
hear 

The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your 
rhyme  ? 

"There  lived  a  king  In  the  most 

Eastern  East, 
Less  old  than  J,  jret  older,  for  my  blood 
Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 
A  tawny  pirate  anclior'd  in  his  port, 
Whose    bark   had  plunder' d  twenty 

nameless  isles ; 
And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of 

dawn, 

He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thousand  boats 
All  fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea. 
i^d  pushing  his  black  craft  among 
them  all. 


He  lightly  scatter  d  ineirs  and  Drought 
her  off, 

With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow- 
slain  ; 

A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonder- 
ful. 

They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when 

she  moved  : 
And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield 

her  up. 

The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy  ; 
Then  made  her  Queen :  but  those  isle- 

nurtur'd  eyes 
Waged  such  unwilling  tho'  successful 

war 

On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd  ;  coun- 
cils thinn'd, 
And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-lilit: 

she  drew 

The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters'  hearts ; 
And  beasts  themselves  would  worship  ; 

camels  knelt 
Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountaiB 

back 

That  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow*£ 

black  knees 
Of  Homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent 

hands. 

To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle- 
bells. 

What  wonder,  being  jealous,  that  he 
sent 

His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro'  all 
The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he 
sway'd 

To  find  a  wizard  who  might  teach  the 
King 

Some  charm,  which  being  wrought 

upon  the  Queen 
Might  keep  her  all  his  own  :  to  such  a 

one 

He  promised  more  than  ever  king  has 

has  given, 
A  league  of  mountain  fuii  oi  goidei 
mines, 

A  province  with  a  hundred  miles  OL 

coast, 

A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him  : 
But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail'd^ 
the  King 

Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  mean- 
ing bv  it 

To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenden 


back 


Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with— 


MERLIN  AI 

meir  heads  should  moulder  on  the 

city  gates. 
And  many  tried  and  f  ail'd,  because  the 

charm 

Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own  : 
And  many  a  wizard  brow  bleach'd  on 

the  walls : 
And  many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion 

crows 

Hung  like  a  cloud  above  the  gateway 
towers." 

And  Vivien  breaking  in  upon  him 
said  : 

I  sit  and  gather  honey ;  yet,  me- 
thinks, 

Your  tongue  has  tript  a  little :  ask 
yourself. 

The  lady  never  made  unwilling  war 

With  those  fine  eyes :  she  had  her 
pleasure  in  it, 

And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with 
good  cause. 

And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  dam- 
sel then 

"Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss?  were  all  as 
tame, 

I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was 
fair? 

Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes, 
Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  her 
drink, 

Or  make  her  paler  with  a  poison'd 
rose? 

Well,  those  were  not  our  days  :  but  did 
they  find 

A  wizard?  Tell  me,  was  he  like  to 
thee?" 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm 
round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let 
her  eyes 

Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a 
bride's 

On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of 
men. 

He  answer' d  laughing,  ''Nay,  not 

like  to  me. 
At  last  they  found— his  foragers  for 

charms— 
A  little  glassy-headed  hairless  man. 
Who  lived  alone  in  a  great  wild  on 

grass; 


D  VIVIEN  363 

Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading 
grew 

So  grated  down  and  filed  away  with 

thought,  • 
So  lean  his  eyes  were  monstrous ;  while 

the  skin 

Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs 

and  spine. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one 

sole  aim. 

Nor  ever  touch'd  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted 
flesh, 

Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the 
wall 

That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-cast- 
ing men 

Became  a  crystal,  and  he  saw  them 
thro'  it. 

And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind  the 
wall, 

And  learnt  their  elemental  secrets, 
powers 

And  forces  ;  often  o'er  the  sun's  bright 
eye 

Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud. 
And  lash'd  it  at  the  base  with  slanting 
storm  ; 

Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving 
rain, 

When  the  lake  whiten'd  and  the  pme- 

wood  roar'd, 
And  the    cairn'd   mountain  was  a 

shadow,  sunn'd 
The  world  to  peace  again :  here  was 

the  man. 

And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to 
the  King. 

And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm 

the  Queen 
In  such-wise,  that  no  man  could  see 

her  more. 
Nor  saw  she   save  the  King,  who 

wrought  the  charm, 
Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as 

dead. 

And  lost  all  use  of  life  :  but  when  the 
King 

Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden 
mines. 

The  province  wifh  a  hundred  miles  of 
coast, 

The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old 
man 

Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived 
on  grass, 


St4 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


And  vanish'd,  and  his  book  came  down 
to  me." 

And  V^ivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily ; 
You  have  the  book  :  the  charm  is 

written  in  it : 
Good  :  take  my  counsel :  let  me  know 

it  at  once  : 
For  keep  it  like  a  puzzle  chest  in  chest, 
With  each  chest  lock'd  and  padlock'd 

thirty-fold, 
And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a 

mound 

As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy 
deep, 

I  yet  should  strike  upon  a  sudden 
means 

To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the 
charm  : 

Then,  if  I  tried  it,  who  should  blame 
me  then?" 
And  smiling  as  a  Master  smiles  at 
one 

That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any 
school 

But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Ignor- 
ance 

Delivers    brawling    judgments,  un- 
ashamed. 

On  all  things  all  day  long  ;  he  answer'd 
her. 

**  You  read  the  book,  my  pretty  Viv- 
ien ! 

O  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 
But  every  page  having   an  ample 
marge, 

And  every  marge  enclosing  in  the 
midst 

A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little 
blot. 

The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of 
fleas : 

And  every  square  of  text  an  awful 
charm. 

Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone 

So  long,  that  mountains  have  arisen 
since 

With  cities  on  their  flanks— 2/o?<^  read 
the  book  ! 

iA.nd  every  margin  scribbled,  crost,  and 
cramm'd 

With  comment,  densest  condensation, 
hard 


To  mind  and  eye ;  but  the  long  sleep- 
less nights 

Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to 
me. 

And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even 

I; 

And  none  can  read  the  comment  but 
myself  ; 

And  in  the  comment  did  I  find  tba 
charm. 

O,  the  results  are  simple  ;  a  mere  chil 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one. 
And  never  could  undo  it :  ask  no  more: 
For  tho'  you  should  not  prove  it  upon 
me, 

But  keep,  that  oath  you  swore,  you 

might,  perchance. 
Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table 

Round, 

And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble 
of  you." 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger, 
said  : 

V/hat  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of 

me  ? 

They  ride  abroad  redressing  human 
wrongs  ! 

They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine 
in  horn. 

They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity  ! 
Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale. 
But  you  are  man,  you  well  can  under- 
stand 

The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain 'd 

for  shame. 
Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch 

me  :  swine  ! " 
Then  answer'd  Merlin  careless  of  her 

words. 

"  Ye  breathe  but  accusation  vast  and 
vague, 

Spleen-born,  I  think,  and  proofless.  If 
ye  know. 

Set  up  the  charge  ye  know,  to  stand  or 
fall '  " 

And    Vivien    answer'd  frowning 

wrathfully. 
O  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er 

his  wife 

And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  dis- 
tant lands ; 

Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning 
found 


Not  two  but  three  :  there  lay  the  reck- 
ling, one 

But  one  hour  old  !    What  said  the 

happy  sire  ? 
A  seven  months'  babe  had  been  a  truer 

gift. 

Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused 
his  fatherhood." 

Then  answer'd  Merlin    Nay,  I  know 
the  tale. 

Sir  Valence  wedded  with  an  outland 
dame : 

Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder' d 

from  his  wife  : 
One  child  they  had  :  it  lived  with  her: 

she  died : 

His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own 
affair 

"Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  home 
the  child. 

He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore  : 
take  the  truth." 

"O  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "  overtrue  a  tale. 
What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagra- 
more, 

That  ardent  man  ?  *  to  pluck  the  flower 
in  season  ;  * 

So  says  the  song,  <  I  trow  it  is  no  trea- 
son.' 

0  Master,  shall  we  call  him  overqnick 
To  crop  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the 

hour?" 

And  Merlin  answer'd  "  Overquick 
are  you 

To  catch  a  lothly  plume  f all'n  from  the 
wing 

Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole 
prey 

Is  man's  good  name  :  he  never  wrong'd 
his  bride. 

1  know  the  tale.   An  angry  gust  of 

wind 

Puff 'd  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad 
room'd 

And  many-corridor 'd  complexities 
Of  Arthur's  palace  :  then  he  found  a 
door 

And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured  orna- 
ment 

That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem 
his  own ; 

And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch 
and  slept, 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 
A 


365 

besides  a  stainlesB 


stainless  man 
maid ; 

And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  othei 
there  ; 

Till  the  high  dawn  piercing^the  royal 
rose  ^ 

Jn  Arthur's  casement  glimmer'd 
chastely  down, 

Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at 
once 

He  rose  without  a  word  and  parted 

from  her  : 
But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about 

the  court. 
The  brute  world  howling  forced  them 

into  bonds, 
And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy, 

being  pure." 

O  ay,"  said  Vivien,    that  were  like- 
ly too. 

What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 
And  of  the  horrid  foulness  that  he 
wrought. 

The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb 
of  Christ, 

Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's 
fold. 

What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel- 
yard, 

Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  the 
graves. 

And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the 
dead  ! " 

And  Merlin  answer'd  careless  of  her 
charge, 

"  A  sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure  ; 
But  once  in  life  was  fluster' d  with  new 
wine, 

Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel- 
yard  ; 

Where  one  of  Satan's  shepherdesses 
caught 

And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her 

master's  mark ; 
And  that  he  sinn'd,  is  not  believable  ; 
For,  look  upon  his  face  !  —  but  if  he 

sinn'd, 

The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the 
blood, 

And  not   the  one  dark  hour  which 

brings  remorse, 
Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  w« 

be  : 


MERLIN  4ND  VIVIEN. 


Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose 
hymns 

A-re  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than 
all. 

But  is  your  spleen  froth'd  out,  or  have 
ye  more  ?  " 

And  Vivien  answer' d  frowning  yet 

in  wrath  ; 
O  ay  ;  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot, 

friend  ? 

Traitor  or  true  ?  that  commerce  with 

the  Queen, 
I  ask  you,  is  it  clamor'd  by  the  child, 
Or  whisper' d  in  the  corner  ?  do  you 

know  it  ?" 

To  which  he  answer'd  sadly,  Yea,  I 
know  it. 

Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at  first, 
To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the 
King  ; 

So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  :  let  him  be. 
But  have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal 
praise 

For  Arthur,  Jblameless  King  and  stain- 
less man  ?  " 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuck- 
ling laugh ; 

*  Him  ?  18  he  man  at  all,  who  knows 
and  winks  ? 

Sees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does, 
and  winks  ? 

By  which  the  good  king  means  to 
blind  himself, 

And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table 
Round 

To  all  the  foulness  that  they  work. 
Myself 

Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  woman- 
hood) 

The  pretty,  popular  name  such  man- 
hood earns. 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all 
their  crime  ; 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown'd  king,  coward, 
and  fool." 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loath- 
ing, said ; 

"  O  true  and  tender  !  O  my  liege  and 
king  ! 

O  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman, 
Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye- 
witness fain 


Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women 
pure ; 

How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  interpre- 
ters. 

From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 
To  things  with  every  sense  as  false  and 
foul 

As  the  poach'd  filth  that  floods  the 

middle  street. 
Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted 

blame  !  '* 

But  Vivien  deeming  Merlin  over- 
borne 

By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let 

her  tongue 
Rage  like  a  tire  among  the  noblest 

names. 

Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole 
self, 

Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 
Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad 
clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she 
will'd. 

He  dragg'd  his  eyebrow  bushes  down, 
and  made 

A  snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow  eyes. 
Andmutter'd  in  himself,    tell  her  the 
charm  ! 

So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 
To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it 
not. 

So  will  she  rail.    What  did  the  wan- 
ton say  ? 

'  Not  mount  as  high  ; '  we  scarce  can 

sink  as  low  : 
For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and 

earth, 

But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven 
and  Hell. 

I  know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends 
of  old  ; 

All  brave,  and  many  generous,  and 

some  chaste. 
I  think  she  cloaks  the  wounds  of  loss 

with  lies  ; 
I  do  believe  she  tempted  them  and 

fail'd, 

She  is  so  bitter  :  for  fine  plots  may  fail. 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well 

as  face 

With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not 
theirs. 


MERLIN  Al 

I  will  not  let  her  know  :  nine  tithes 
of  times 

Face*flatterers  and  backbiters  are  the 
same. 

And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  im- 
pute a  crime 

Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  them- 
selves, 

Wanting  the  mental  range ;  or  low 
desire 

Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level 
all ; 

Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to 
the  plain, 

To  leave  an  equal  baseness  ;  and  in  this 
Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  they 
find 

Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a  name  of 
note. 

Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so 
small, 

Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane 
delight, 

And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of 
clay, 

Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and 
see 

Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spirit- 
ual fire, 

And  touching  other  worlds.  I  am 
weary  of  her." 

He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in 

whispers  part, 
Half -suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and 

chin. 

But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his 
mood. 

And  hearing  harlot  "  mutter'd  twice 
or  thrice. 

Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and 
stood 

Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen  ;  loathsome  sight, 
How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  love, 
Flash'd  the  bare-grinning  skeleton  of 
death  ! 

White  was  her  cheek  ;  sharp  breaths 
of  anger  puff 'd 

Her  fairy  nostril  out ;  her  hand  half- 
clench 'd 

Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to 
her  belt. 

And  feeling  ;  had  she  found  a  dagger 
there 


VIVIEN,  367 

(For  in  a  wink  the  false  love  turns  to 

hate) 

She  would  have  stabb'd  him  ;  but  she 

found  it  not : 
His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she 

took 

To  bitter  weeping  like  a  beaten  child, 
A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken 

with  sobs 
"  O  crueller  than  was  ever  told  in 

tale. 

Or  sung  in  song  !   O  vainly  lavish'd 
love  ! 

0  cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or 

strange, 

Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame 
in  love 

So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is  — 
nothing 

Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his 
trust 

Who  call'd  her  what  he  call'd  her—  all 

her  crime. 
All  —  all  —  the   vdsh  to  prove  him 

wholly  hers." 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt 
her  hands 
Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,  and 
said  : 

"Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affec 

tions  to  the  heart  I 
Seethed  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's 

milk  ! 

Kill'd  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life  ©f 
blows  ! 

1  thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being 

great : 

0  God,  that  I  had  loved  a  smaller  man! 

1  should  have  found  in  him  a  greater 

heart. 

O,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion, 
saw 

The  knights,  the  court,  the  king,  dark 

in  your  light. 
Who  love  to  make  men  darker  than 

they  are, 

Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I 
had 

To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 
Of  worship — I  am  answer'd,  and  hence- 
forth 

The  course  of  life  that  seem'd  sa 
flowery  to  me 


368  MERLIN  A. 

With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only 
you, 

Becomes  the  sea-cliff  pathway  broken 
short. 

And  ending  in  a  ruin — nothing  left, 
But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and 
there. 

Xf  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life 
away, 

Kill'd  with  inutterable  unkindliness." 

She  paused,  she  turn'd  away,  she 
hung  her  head, 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair, 
the  braid 

Slipt  and  uncoil'd  itself,  she  wept 
afresh. 

And  the    dark  wood   grew  darker 

toward  the  storm 
In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 
Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 
For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her 

true  : 

Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 
»'  Come  from  the  storm  "  and  having 
no  reply, 

Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and 
the  face 

Hand-hidden,  as  for  utmost  grief  or 
shame  ; 

Th^n  thrice  essay'd,  by  tenderest- 

touching  terms 
To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in 

vain. 

At  last  she  let  herself  be  conquer'd  by 
him. 

And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  re- 
turns. 

The  seeming -injured  simple-heart  el 
thing 

Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and 

settled  there. 
There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from 

his  knees, 
Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he 
saw 

The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  closed 

eyelid  yet. 
About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in 

love. 

The  gentle  wizard  cast  a  shielding  arm. 
But  she  dislink'd  herself  at  once  and 
rose 

Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and 
stood 


TD  VIVIEN. 

A    virtuous     gentlewoman  deeply 
wrong' d, 

Upright  and  flush'd  before  him  :  then 
she  said : 

There  must  be  now  no  passages  of 
love 

Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  ever- 
more. 

Since,  if  I  be  what  I  am  grossly  call'd, 
What  should  be  granted  which  your 

own  gross  heart 
Would  reckon  worth  the  taking?  1 

will  go. 

In  truth,  but  one  thing  now— better 
have  died 

Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once— could 

make  me  stay — 
That  proof  of  trust — so  often  asked  in 

vain  ! 

How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of 
yours, 

I  find  with  grief  !  I  might  believe  you 
then, 

Who  knows  ?  once  more.  O,  what  was 

once  to  me 
Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  has 

grown 

The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
Farewell  ;  think  kindly  of  me,  for  I 
fear 

My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  you 
still. 

But  ere  I  leave  you  let  me  swear  once 
more 

That  if  I  schemed  against  your  peace 
in  this, 

May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens 

o'er  me,  send 
One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else, 

may  make 
My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  lie." 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of 

heaven  a  bolt 
(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above 

them)  struck. 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the 

wood 

The  dark  earth  round.   He  raised  his 

eyes  and  saw 
The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro' 

the  gloom. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


369 


But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard 
her  oath, 

And  dazzled  by  the  livid  flickering  fork, 
And  deafen'd  with  the  stammering 

cracks  and  claps 
That  follow 'd,  flying  back  and  crying 

out, 

**0  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  love  me, 
save, 

Yet  save  me  ! "  clung  to  him  and 

hugg'd  him  close ; 
And  call'd  him  dear  protector  in  her 

fright. 

Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her 
fright, 

But  wrought  upon  his   mood  and 

hugg'd  him  close. 
The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her 

touch 

Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal  warm'd. 
She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay 
tales  : 

She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault 
she  wept 

Of  petulancy  ;  she  call'd  him  lord  and 
leige, 

Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of 
eve, 

Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passion- 
ate love 

Of  her  whole  life  ;  and  ever  overhead 
Bellow'd  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten 
branch 

Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river  rain 
Above  them  ;  and  m  change  of  glare 

and  gloom 
Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and 

came  ; 

Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion 
spent. 

Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 
Had  left  the   ravaged  woodland  yet 

once  more 
To  peace  ;  and  what  should  not  have 

been  had  been. 
For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn, 
Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm, 

and  slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth 

the  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands. 
And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 

fame. 

24 


Then  crying    I  have  made  his  glory 
mine.'' 

And  shrieking  out  "  O  fool  !  "  the  har- 
lot leapt 

Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket 
closed 

Behind  her,  and  the   forest  echo'd 
"fool." 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the 
east 

Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lance- 
lot ; 

Which  flrst  she  placed  where  morn- 
ing's earliest  ray 

Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with 
the  gleam  ; 

Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure  f ashion'd 
for  it 

A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon 'd  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her 
wit, 

A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the 
nest. 

Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by 
day 

Leaving  her  household  and  good  father 
climb'd 

That   eastern    tower,   and  entering 

barr'd  her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 

shield, 

Now  guess'd  a  hidden  meaning  in  his 
arms. 

Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it. 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made 
upon  it, 

Conjecturing  when  and  where  :  this 

cut  is  fresh ; 
That  ten  years  back  ;  this  dealt  him  at 

Caerlyle  : 
That  at  Caerleon  ;  this  at  Camelot  •. 
And  ah  God's  mercy  what  a  stroke  was 

there  ! 

And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have 
kill'd,  but  God 


370 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll'd  his 
enemy  down, 

And  saved  him :  so  she  lived  in  fan- 
tasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good 
shield 

Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n 

his  name  ? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to 

tilt 

For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond 
jousts. 

Which  Arthur  had  ordain'd,  and  by 

that  name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was 

the  prize. 

For  Arthur  long  before  they  crown'd 
him  king, 

Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyon- 
nesse, 

Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and 

black  tarn . 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and 

clave 

Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain 
side  : 

For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had 
met 

And  fought  together ;  but  their  names 
were  lost. 

And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a 
blow, 

And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 
abhorr'd  : 

And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones 

were  bleach'd, 
And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags: 
And  he,  that  once  was  king,  had  on  a 

crown 

Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four 
aside. 

And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the 
pass 

All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton, 

and  the  skull 
Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the 

skull  the  crown 
Roll'd  into  light,  and  turning  on  its 

rims 

Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the 
tarn  : 

And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he 
plunged,  and  caught, 


And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 
Heard  murmurs  "lo,  thou  likewise 

Shalt  be  king." 
Thereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the 

gems 

Pluck'd  from  the  crown,  and  show'd 

them  to  his  knights, 
Saying  ''these  jewels,  whereupon  I 

chanced 

Divinely,  are  the  kingdom's  not  the 
king's — 

For  public  use  :  henceforward  let  there 
be, 

Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one  of 
these  : 

For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs 

must  learn 
Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves 

shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we 

drive 

The  Heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall 

rule  the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."  Thus 

he  spoke  : 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had 

been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the 

year, 

With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the 
Queen, 

When  all  were  won  ;  but  meaning  all 
at  once 

To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half    her  realm,  had  never 
spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and 
the  last 

And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his 
court 

Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 
now 

Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a 
joust 

At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew 
nigh 

Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guine- 
vere 

"  Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  can- 
not move 

To  these  fair  jousts?"    "Yea,  lord,** 
she  said  ''  ye  know  it." 
Then  will  ye  miss,"  he  answer'd, 
''  the  great  deeds 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


371 


Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the 
lists, 

A  sight  ye  love  to  look  on."  And  the 
Queen 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  lan- 
guidly 

On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside 
the  King. 

He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 
there, 

Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick  ;  my  love  is 
more 

Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded,  and  a 
heart, 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the 
Queen 

(However  much  he  yearn'd  to  make 
complete 

The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined 
boon) 

Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth, 
and  say, 

"Sir  King,  mine  ancif^nt  wound  is 

hardly  whole. 
And  lets  me  from  the  saddle  ; "  and 

the  King 

Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and 
went  his  way. 

No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  be- 
gan. 

''To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot, 
much  to  blame. 
Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts  ?  the 
knights 

Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 
crowd 

Will  murmur,  lo  the  shameless  ones, 
who  take 

Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is 
gone  ! " 

Then  Lancelot  vext  at  having  lied  in 
vain  : 

Are  ye  so  wise  ?  ye  were  not  once  so 
wise. 

My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  ye 
loved  me  first. 

Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more  ac- 
count 

Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the 
mead, 

When  its  own  voice  clings  to  eacli 

blade  of  grass, 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.  As  to ' 

knights. 


Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 
But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 
Of  all  men  :  many  a  bard,  without  of- 
fence, 

Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his 
lay, 

Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guine- 
vere, 

The  pearl  of  beauty  :  and  our  knights 

at  feast 

Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while 
the  king 

Would  listen  smiling.   How  then?  is 

there  more  ? 
Has  Arthur  spoken  aught?  or  wouid 

yourself. 

Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir. 
Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless 
lord?" 


into 


little  scornful 


She  broke 
laugh. 

"  Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  fault- 
less King, 
That  passionate  perfection,  my  good 

lord- 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in 
heaven  ? 

He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to 
me. 

He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  un- 
truth, 

He  cares  not  for  me  :  only  here  to-day 
There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in 
his  eyes  : 

Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper'd 

with  him— else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 
To  make  them   like   himself:  but, 

friend,  to  me 
He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at 

all : 

For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch 
of  earth  ; 

The  low  sun  makes  the  color:  I  am 
yours, 

Not  Arthur's,  as  ye  know  s»ve  by  the 
bond. 

And  therefore  hear  my  words :  go  to 

the  jousts  : 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break 

our  dream 
Wiien  sweetest ;  a»id  th<»  verD^ia  voices 

here 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


P»iay  buzz  so  loud— we  scorn  them,  but 
they  sting." 
Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 
knights. 

*'And  with  what  face,  after  my  pre- 
text made, 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before  a  king  who  honors  his  own 
word. 

As  if  it  were  his  God's  ?  " 

"  Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 
"  A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to 
rule, 

Else  liad  he  not  lost  me  :  but  listen  to 
lue. 

If  I  must  find  you  wit :  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear 

at  a  touch 
But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot ;  your 

great  name, 
This  conquers  :  hide  it  therefore  ;  go 

unknown  : 
Win  !  by  tliis  kiss  you  will :  and  our 

true  king 

Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  O  my 
knight. 

As  all  lor  glory ;  for  to  speak  him 
true. 

Ye  know  right  well,  how  meek  soe'er 
he  seem, 

No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 
He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than 
himself  • 

They  prove  to  him  his  work  ;  win  and 
return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to 
horse, 

Wroth  at  himself :  not  willing  to  be 
known. 

He  left  the  barren-beaten  thorough- 
fare, 

Chose  the  green  path  that  show'd  the 

rarer  foot. 
And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 
Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way  ; 
Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly-shadow'd 

track. 

That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the 
dales 

Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the 
towers. 

Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gate- 
way horn. 


Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad- 
wrinkled  man, 

Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  dis- 
arm'd. 

And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  word- 
less man  ; 

And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 

With  two  strong  sons.  Sir  Torre  and 
Sir  Lavaine, 

Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle 
court ; 

And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily 
maid 

Elaine,  his  daughter :  mother  of  the 
house 

There  was  not :  some  light  jest  among 

them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great 

knight 

Approach'd  them  :  then  the  Lord  of 
Astolat. 

Whence^  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and 
by  what  name 
Livest  between  the  lips?  for  by  thy 
state 

And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief 
of  those, 

After  the  king,  who  eat  in  Arthur's 
hallo. 

Him  have  I  seen  :  the  rest,  his  Table 
Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  un- 
known." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 
knights. 

Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall, 

and  known, 
What  I   by   mere  mischance  have 

brought,  my  shield. 
But  since  1  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me 

not, 

Hereafter  you  shall  know  me— and  the 
shield— 

I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you 
have, 

Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not 
mine." 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "  Here 
is  Torre's  : 
Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir 
Torre. 

And  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank 
enough. 


LANCELOT  2 

His  ye  can  hare."   Then  added  plain 
Sir  Torre, 
Yea  since  I  cannot  use  it,  ye  may 
have  it." 

Here  laugh'd  the  father  saying  "  Fie, 

Sir  Churl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight  ? 
Allow  him  :  but  Lavaine,  my  younger 

here, 

He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an 
hour 

And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair, 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  be- 
fore." 

"  Nay,  father,  nay  good  father,  shame 
me  not 

Before  this  noble  knight "  said  young 
Lavaine 

"For  nothing.  Surely  I  but  play'd  on 
Torre  : 

He  seem'd  so  sullen,  vext  he  could  not 
go  : 

A  jest,  no  more  :  for,  knight,  the  maid- 
en dream. 

That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her 
hand, 

And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held, 
And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or 
stream, 

The  castle-well,  belike  ;  and  then  I  said 
That  tf\  went  and  ?/I  fought  and  won 
it 

(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  our- 
selves) 

Then  must  she  keep  it  saf  elier.  All  was 
jest. 

But  father  give  me  leave,  and  if  he  will, 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble 
knight : 

Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win: 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my 
best." 

"So  ye  will  grace  me,"  answer'd 
Lancelot, 

Smiling  a  moment,  "  with  your  fellow- 
ship 

O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost 
myself. 

Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and 
friend ; 

And  you  shall  win  this  diamond— as  I 
hear. 

It  is  a  fair  large  diamond,— if  ye  may  ; 


ND  ELAINE.  373 

And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye  will." 

"A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain 
Sir  Torre, 

"  Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  sim- 
ple maids." 

Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 
gi'ound, 

Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost 
about, 

Flush' d  slightly  at  the  slight  disparage- 
ment 

Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  look- 
ing at  her. 

Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  re- 
turn'd. 

"  If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  Queens  are  to  bo  counted  so, 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who 

deem  this  maid 
Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on 

earth, 

Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like. 

He  spoke  and  ceased  :  the  lily  maid 
Elaine, 

Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she 
look'd, 

Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  linea- 
ments. 

The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the 
Queen, 

In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord, 
Had  marr'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere 
his  time. 

Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with 
one. 

The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the 
world, 

Had  been  the  sleeker  of  it :  but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a  tiend,  and 
rose 

And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  soli- 
tudes 

For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 

Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  good- 
liest man, 

That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 

And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her 
eyes 

However  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice 

her  years, 
Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on 

the  cheek, 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 

her  eyes 


374 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  loved  Mm,  with  that  love  which 
was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darliiig  of 
the  court, 

Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude 
hall 

Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half 
disdain 

Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time. 
But  kindly  man  moving  among  his 
kind : 

Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of 
their  best 

And  [talk  and  minstrel  melody  enter- 
tain'd. 

And  much  they  ask'd  of  court  and 

Table  Round, 
And  ever  well  and  readily  answer'd  he  : 
But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man, 
Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years 

before. 

The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his 
tongue. 

"He  learnt  and  warn^i  me  of  their 

fierce  design 
Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught 

and  maim'd ; 
But  I  my  sons  and  little  daughter  fled 
From  bonds  of  death,  and  dwelt  among 

the  woods 
By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good 

Arthur  broke 
The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon 

hill." 

"  O  there,  great  Lord,  doubtless," 
Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of 
youth. 

Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "  you 
have  fought. 

O  tell  us — for  we  live  apart — you  know 

Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."  And  Lan- 
celot spoke 

And  answer'd  him  at  full,  as  having 
been 

With  Arthur  in  the  tight  which  all  day 
long 

Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent 
Glem ; 

And  in  the  four  wild  battles  by  the 
Bhore 


Of  Duglas  ;  that  on  Bassa ;  then  the 
war 

That  thunder'd  in  and  out  the  gloomy 
skirts 

Of  Celidon  the  forest ;  and  again 
By  castle  Gurnion  where  the  glorious 
King 

Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady'* 
Head, 

Carved  on  one  emerald,  center'd  in  & 
sun 

Of  silver  rays,  that  lighten'd  as  he 

breathed ; 
And  at  Caerieon  had  he  help'd  his  lord. 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wilq 

white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering  ; 
And  up  in  Agned  Cathregonion  too. 
And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of 

Trath  Treroit, 
Where  many  a  heathen  fell ;  **  and  oa 

the  mount 
Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table 

Round, 

And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and 
him, 

And  break  them  ;  and  I  saw  him,  after, 
stand 

High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to 
plume 

Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen 
blood. 

And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he 
cried 

*  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken,  foi" 
the  King, 

However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  noi 
cares 

For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the 
jousts— 

For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down, 
he  laughs 

Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than 

Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills  him  :  I  never  saw  his  like  :  there 
lives 

No  greater  leader. 

While  he  utter'd  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid 
Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord  ; "  and 
when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasan 
try- 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


375 


Being  mirthful  he  but  in  a  stately 
kind — 

She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living 
smile 

Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a 
cloud 

Of  melancholy  severe,  from'  which 
again, 

Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him 
cheer, 

There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tender- 
ness 

Of  manners  and  of  nature,  and  she 
thought 

That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for 
her. 

And  all  that  night  long  his  face  before 

her  lived, 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face. 
Divinely  thro'  all  hindrance  finds  the 

man 

Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his 
face. 

The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life, 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest;  so  the  face  before  her 
lived. 

Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence, 
full 

Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her 
sleep. 

Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the 
thought 

She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet 
Lavaine. 

First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating: 
Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the 
court, 

This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it  ? 
and  Lavaine 
Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the 
tower. 

There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot 
turn'd,  and  smooth'd 

The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  him- 
self. 

Half -envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she 
drew 

Nearer  and  stood.  He  look'd,  and  more 
amazed 

Then  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him, 
saw 

The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 


I  He  had  not  dreamed  she  was  so  beauti- 
ful. 

Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear. 
For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 
Kapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 
Suddenly  flash'd  on  her  a  wild  desire, 
That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the 
tilt. 

She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking 
for  it. 

"  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not- 
noble  it  is, 

I  well  believe,  the  noblest— will  you 
wear 

My  favor  at  this  tourney?"  *' Nay,'* 
said  he, 

"  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have 
worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know 

me,  know." 
'*Yea,  so,"  she  answer'd;  "then  in 

wearing  mine 
Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble 

lord. 

That  those  who  know  should  know 

you."   And  he  turn'd 
Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his 

mind, 

And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd,  true, 
my  child. 

Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  to  me: 
What  is  it  ?  "  and  she  told  him  *'  a  red 
sleeve 

Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  broughtit: 

then  he  bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Saying,  '*I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face  and  fiU'd  her  with 

delight : 

But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning  brought  the  yet-unblazon'd 
shield. 

His  brother's  ;  which  he  gave  to  Lance- 
lot, 

Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine  ; 
Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have 
my  shield 

In  keeping  till  1  come."  A  grace  to 
me," 

She  answer'd, "  twice  to-day.  I  am  your 
Squire." 

Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing,  "  Lily 
maid, 


376 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In  earnest,  let  be  bring  your  color  back; 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  :  now  get  you 

hence  to  bed  :  " 
So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own 

hand, 

And  thus  they  moved  away  ;  she  stay'd 
a  minute, 

Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate, 
and  there — 

Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  seri- 
ous face 

Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother's 
kiss — 

Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the 
shield 

In  silence,  while  she  watch'd  their  arms 
far-off 

Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the 
downs. 

Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took 

the  shield, 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  two  companions  past 
away  [downs, 
Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 
To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived 
a  knight 

Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty 
years 

A  hermit,  who  had  pray'd,  labor'd  and 
pray'd 

And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 
On  massive  columns,  like  a  shorecliff 
cave, 

And  cells  and  chambers  :  all  were  fair 
and  dry  ; 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows  un- 
derneath 

Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky 
roofs  ; 

And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen- 
trees 

And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling 
showers. 

And  thither  wending  there  that  night 

they  bode . 
But  when  the  next  day  broke  Irom 

undergrown, 
And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the 

cave, 

They  rose,  heard  masG,  broke  fast,  and 
rode  away  : 


Then  Lancelot  saying,  "  hear,  but  hold 
my  name 

Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake," 

Abaaii'd  Lavaine,  whose  instant  rever- 
ence. 

Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 

own  praise, 
But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "is  it 

indeed?  " 

And  after  muttering    the  great  Lance- 
lot " 

At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer'd 
"  One, 

One  have  I  seen —  that  other,  our  liege 
lord. 

The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  king 
of  kings, 

Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 
He  will  be  there — then  were  I  stricken 
blind 

That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had 
seen." 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they 

reach' d  the  lists 
By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which 

half  round 
Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the 


Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King, 
who  sat 

Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known 
Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 
clung, 

And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed 
in  gold. 

And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him 
crept 

Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to 
make 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest 
of  them 

Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innu- 
merable 

Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they 
found 

The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  them- 


Yet  with  ali  ease,  so  tender  was  tho 
work  : 

And,  in  the  costljr  canopy  o'er  him  set, 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  name- 
less king. 


Z.ANCELOT  AND  ELAINE, 


Then  Lancelot  answer'd  young  Lavaine 
and  said, 

Me  you  call  great :  mine  is  the  firmer 
seat, 

The  truer  lance  :  'but  there  is  many  a 
youth 

Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  I 
am 

And  overcome  ii ;   and  in  me  there 
dwells 

No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off 
touch 

Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not 
great  : 

There  is  the  man."  And  Lavaine  gaped 

upon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculouH.,  and  anon 
The  trumpets  blew;  and  then  did  either 

side, 

They  that  assail'd,  and  they  that  held 
the  lists, 

Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly 
move. 

Meet  an  the  midst,  and  there  so  furi- 
ously 

Shock,  that  a  man  far-oif  might  well 
perceive, 

If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield, 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thun- 
der of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 
Which  were  the  weaker;  then  he  hurl'd 
into  it 

Against  the  stronger  :  little  need  to 
speak 

Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory  :  King,  duke, 
earl, 

Count,  baron  —  whom  he  smote,  he 
overthrew. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith 
and  kin, 

Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held 
the  lists. 

Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stran- 
ger knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot ;  and  one  said  to  the  other 
Lo  ! 

What  is  he  ?  I  do  not  mean  the  force 
alone. 

The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  — 
Is  it  not  Lancelot ! "    "  When  has  Lan- 
celot worn 
t'avor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 


37T 

as  we,  who  know 


Not  such  his  wont, 
him,  know." 
How  then  ?  who  then  ?  "  a  fury  seized 
on  them, 

A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with 
theirs. 

They  couch' d  their  spears  and  prick'd 

their  steeds  and  thus, 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the 

wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon 

him 

Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North- 
sea, 

Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit, 

bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against 

the  skies, 

Down  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  the 
bark, 

And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  over- 
bore 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a 
spear 

Down-glancing,  lamed  the  charger,  and 
a  spear 

Prick'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and 
the  head 

Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt, 
and  remain' d. 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  wor 
shipfully  ; 
He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the 
earth. 

And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot 

where  he  lay. 
He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony, 

got. 

But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet 
endure, 

And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 
His  party, —  tho' it  seemed  half -mir- 
acle 

To  those  he  fought  with  —  drave  his 

kith  and  kin. 
And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the 

lists. 

Back  to  the  barrier  ;  then  the  herald* 
blew 

Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore 

the  sleeve 
Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ;  and  all  the 

knights, 


378 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


His  party,  cried     Advance,  and  take 

your  prize 
The    diamond ;  '*    but  lie  answer'd, 

"  diamond  me 
Ko  diamonds  !  for  God's  love,  a  little 

air  ! 

Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is 
death ! 

Hence  will  I  and  I  charge  you,  follow 
me  not." 

He  spoke,  and  vanish' d  suddenly 
from  the  field 
With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar 
grove. 

There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid, 
and  sat, 

Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  <*draw  the 
lance-head  : " 
Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,"  said 
Lavaine, 

"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  ye  shall 
die." 

But  he  I  die  already  with  it :  draw  — 
Draw,"  —  and  Lavaine  drew,  and  that 

other  gave 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly 

groan. 

And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and 

down  he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon'd 

away. 

Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare 
him  in, 

There  stanch'd  his  wound ;  and  there, 

in  daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a 

week 

Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by 
the  grove 

Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling 
showers, 

And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he 
lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled 
the  lists, 

His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  a,nd 
West, 

Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  deso- 
late isles, 

Came  round  their  great  Pendragon, 

saying  to  him 
•*  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro*  whom  we 

won  the  day 


Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left 

his  prize 

Untaken,   crying    that    his    prize  is 
death." 

"Heaven    hinder,"   said    the  King, 

"  that  i'uch  an  one. 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to- 
day- 
He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lance 

lot- 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.  Where- 
fore rise, 

0  Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 

knight. 

Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he 
be  near. 

1  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to 

horse. 

And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes 

not  one  of  you 
Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly 

given : 

His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.  We 

will  do  him 
No  customary  honor  :  since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the 

prize, 

Ourselves  will  send  it  after.   Rise  and 
take 

This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  re- 
turn, 

And  bring  us  where  he  is  and  how  he 


And  cease  not  from  your  quest,  unti) 
you  find." 

So  saying  from  the  carven  flowex 
above, 

To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  h^ 
took, 

And  gave,  the  diamond  :  then  from 

where  he  sat 
At  Arthur's  right,  with  smiling  fac6 

arose. 

With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart, 
a  Prince 

In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  hit 

May, 

Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair 

and  strong. 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Ge- 

raint 

And  Lamorack,  a  good  knight,  but 
therewithal 


LAN-CELOT  J 

SirModred's  brother,  of  a  crafty  house, 
INor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  king's  command  to  sally 
forth 

In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made 

him  leave 
The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights 

and  kings. 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and 
went ; 

While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in 
mood, 

i^ast,  thinking  "  is  it  Lancelot  who  has 

come 

Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for 
gain 

Of  glory,  and  has  added  wound  to 

wound, 

And  ridd'n  away  to  die?'*  So  fear'd 
the  King, 

And,  after  two  days'  tarriance  there, 
return'd. 

Then  wlien  he  saw  the  Queen,  embrac- 
ing, ask'd, 
•*  Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ?"  Nay, 

lord,"  she  said. 
•*  And  where  is  Lancelot  ?  "  Then  the 

Queen  amazed 
•*  Was  he  not  with  you  ?  won  he  not 

your  prize  ?  " 
Nay,  but  one  like  him."    "  Why 

that  like  was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how 

she  knew, 
Said  * '  Lord,  no  sooner  had  ye  parted 

from  us, 

Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common 
talk 

That  men  went  down  before  his  spear 

at  a  touch, 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;  his  great 

name 

Conquer' d ;  and  therefore  would  he 

hide  his  name 
From  all  men,  ev'n  the  king,  and  to 

this  end 

Had  made  the  pretext  of  a  hindering 
wound. 

That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all, 
and  learn 

If  his  old  prowess  was  In  aught  de- 
cay'd  : 

And  added,  '  our  true  Arthur,  wheniw 
leamsy 


ND  ELAINE,  378 

Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gaia 

of  purer  glory.'  " 

Then  replied  the  King : 
"  Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it 

been. 

In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth. 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  has  trustecl 
you. 

Surely  his  king  and  most  familiar 
friend 

Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.  True, 
indeed. 

Albeit  1  know  my  knights  fantastical. 
So  tine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter : 

now  remains 
But  little  cause  for  laughter  ;  his  own 

kin — 

111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love 

him,  these  ! 
His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set 

upon  him  ; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from 

the  field  : 

Yet  good  news  too  :  for  goodly  hopes 
are  mine 

That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely 
heart. 

He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  hia 
helm 

A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great 
pearls, 

Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
"  Your  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying 

that  she  choked, 
And  sharply  turii'd  about  to  hide  her 

face, 

Past  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung 
herself 

Down  on  the  great  King's  couch,  and 

writhed  upon  it, 
And  clench' d  her  fingers  till  they  bit 

the  palm, 

And  shriek'd  out     traitor  "  to  the  un- 

hearing  wall. 
Then  flash' d  into  wild  tears,  and  rose 

again. 

And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud 
and  pale. 

Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region 
round 

Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  th« 
quest, 


380 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar 
grove, 

And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat: 
Whom  glittering  in  enamell'd  arms 
the  maid 

Glanced  at,  and  cried     What  news 

from  Camelot,  lord? 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red 

sleeve  ?"      He  won." 
*'  I  knew  it,"  she  said.   "But  parted 

from  the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  she  caught 

her  breath  ; 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp 

lance  go  ; 

Thereon  she  smote  her  hand :  well- 
nigh  she  swoon'd ; 

And,  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at 
her,  came 

The  lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the 
Prince 

Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what 
quest 

Sent,  that  he  hore  the  prize  and  could 
not  find 

The  victor,  but  had  ridden  wildly 
round 

To  seek  him,  and  was  wearied  of  the 
search. 

To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat  "  Bide 
with  us. 

And  ride  no  longer  wildly,  noble 
Prince  ! 

Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left 
a  shield  ; 

This  will  he  send  or  come  for  :  further- 
more 

Our  son  is  witl;  him  :  we  shall  hear 
anon, 

Needs  must  we  hear."    To  this  the 

courteous  Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it^ 
And  stay'd  ;  and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair 

Elaine  : 

Where  could  be  found  face  daintier? 

then  her  shape 
From  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect  — 

again 

From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely 
turn'd  : 

"  Well— if  I  bide,  lo  !  this  wild  flower 
for  me  ! " 

And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden 
yews, 


And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon 
her 

With  sallying  wit,  frefe  flashes  from  a 
height 

Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and 

songs. 

Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden 

eloquence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
Rebell'd  against  it,  saying  to  him, 
Prince, 

O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
Whyask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left,' 
Whence  you  might  learn  his  name? 

Why  slight  your  King, 
And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on, 

and  prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  him  at, 

and  went 

To  all  the  winds?"   "Nay,  by  mine 

head,"  said  he, 
"  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 

0  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue 

eyes  : 

But  an  ye  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 

And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and 
Gawain  saw 

Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd 
with  gold, 

Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh, 
and  mock'd  ; 
Right  was  the  King  !  our  Lancelot ! 
that  true  man  !  " 

"  And  right  was  1,"  she  answer'd  mer- 
rily, "  I, 

Who  dream'd  my  knight  the  greatest 

knight  of  all." 
"  And  if  I  dream'd,"  said  Gawain, 

"  that  you  love 
This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  ! 

lo,  you  know  it ! 
Speak  therefore  :  shall  I  waste  myself 

in  vain  ?" 
Full  simple  was  her  answer  *•  What 

know  I  ? 

My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellow- 
ship, 

And  L  when  often  they  have  talk'd  of 
love, 

Wish'd  it  had  been  my  mother,  for 

they  talk'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not ;  bo 

myself— 

1  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE 


381 


But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
Methinks  there  is  none  other  I  can 
love." 

"Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,  **ye 

love  him  well, 
But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all 

others  know. 
And  whom  he  loves."      So  be  it," 

cried  Elaine, 
And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved 

away  : 

But  he  pursued  her  calling  ''Stay  a 
little  ! 

One  golden  minute's  grace  :  he  wore 

your  sleeve  : 
Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I  may 

not  name  ? 
Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf 

at  last  ? 

Nay — like  enough  :  why  then,  far  be  it 
from  me 

To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his 
loves ! 

And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full 
well 

Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let 
me  leave 

My  quest  with  you  ;  the  diamond  also  : 
here  ! 

For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give 
it; 

And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to 
have  it 

From  your  own  hand ;  and  whether  he 

love  or  not, 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.   Fare  you 

well 

A  thousand  times  ! — a  thousand  times 
farewell ! 

Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we 
two 

May  meet  at  court  hereafter  :  there,  I 
think. 

So  you  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the 
court, 

We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave, 
And  si  ,.  "y  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which 
he  gave, 

The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the 
quest 

Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he 
went 

A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 


Thence  to  the  court  he  past ;  there 

told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew  "Sir  Lancelot  is 

the  knight." 
And  added  ''Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I 

learnt ; 

But  fail'd  to  find  him  tho'  I  rode  all 
round 

The  region  :  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid. 
Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ;  she  loves  him ; 

and  to  her, 
Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest 

law, 

I  gave  the  diamond :  she  will  render 
it; 

For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hid- 
ing-place." 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frown'd, 
and  replied, 
"  Too  courteous  truly  !  ye  shall  go  no 
more 

On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  for- 
get 

Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to 
kings." 

He  spake  and  parted.  Wroth  but 
all  in  awe, 

For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  with- 
out a  word, 

Linger'd  that  other,  staring  after  him  ; 

Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  off,  and 
buzz'd  abroad 

About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her 
love. 

All  ears  were  prick'd  at  once,  all 
tongues  were  loosed  : 

"  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lance- 
lot, 

Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Asto- 
lat." 

Some  read  the  King's  face,  some  the 

Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be, 

but  most 

Predoom'd  her  as  unworthy.  One  old 
dame 

Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 

sharp  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  be^ 

fore. 

But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have 

stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd  her  friend's  point  with  pale 

tranquillity. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE, 


So  ran  tlie  tale  like  fire  about  the 
court, 

Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine  days'  won- 
der flared : 

Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice 
or  thrice 

Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  anJ  the 
Queen, 

And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily 
maid 

Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen 
who  sat 

With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 
Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet 
unseen 

Crush'd  the  wild  passion  out  against 
the  floor 

Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats 
became 

As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who 


But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her 
heart. 

Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused 
alone, 

Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face 
and  said, 

Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the 
fault 

Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and 
now, 

Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my 
wits?" 

"Nay,"  said  he,  "surely."  "Where- 
fore, let  me  hence," 

She  answer'd,  "  and  find  out  our  dear 
Lavaine." 
Ye  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear 
Lavaine : 

Bide,"  answer'd  he  :  "we  needs  must 

hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other."  "Ay," 

she  said, 

"  And  of  that  other,  for  I  needs  must 
hence 

And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  dia- 
mond to  him, 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the 
quest 

As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the 
quest  to  me. 


Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my 
dreams 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
self. 

Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's 
aid. 

The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more 
bound, 

My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye 
know. 

When  these  have  worn  their  tokens  : 
let  me  hence 

I  pray  you."  Then  her  father  nod- 
ding said, 

"  Ay,  ay,  the  diamond :  wit  you  well, 
my  child, 

Right  fain  were  I  to  learn  this  knight 

were  whole, 
Being  our  greatest ;  yea,  and  you  must 

give  it — 

And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too 
high 

For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a 

Queen's— 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing :  so  then,  get 

you  gone, 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,  her  suit  allow'd,  she  slipt 
away. 

And  while  She  made  her  ready  for  her 
ride. 

Her  father's  latest  word  humm'd  in 
her  ear, 

"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And  changed  itself  and  echoed  m  her 
heart. 

"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook 
it  off, 

As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at 
us  ; 

And  in  her  heart  she  answer'd  it  and 
said, 

"  What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to 
life?" 

Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for 
guide 

Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bush- 
less  downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy 
face 

Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 


LANCELOT . 

For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of 
flowers  : 

Whom  when  she  saw,  "  Lavaine,"  she 
cried,  "  Lavaine, 

How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot?" 
He  amazed, 

"  Torre  and  Elaine  !  why  here  ?  Sir 
Lancelot ! 

How  know  ye  my  lord's  name  is  Lan- 
celot?" 

But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 
her  tale. 

Then  turn'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in 

his  moods 
Left  them,  and  under  the  strange- 

statued  gate, 
Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd 

mystically. 
Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin. 
His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at 

Camelot : 

And  her,  Lavine  across  the  poplar 
grove 

Led  to  the  caves  :  there  first  she  saw 

the  casque 
Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall :  her  scarlet 

sleeve, 

Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the 

pearls  away, 
Stream'd  from  it  still ;  and  in  her 

heart  she  laugh'd, 
Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his 

helm. 

But  meant  once  more  perchance  to 

tourney  in  it. 
And  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  in 

which  he  slept. 
His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty 

hands 

Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a 
dream 

Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made 

them  move. 
Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek, 

unshorn. 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  him- 
self. 

Uttered  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he 

roU'd  his  eyes 
Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to 

him,  saying 
*'  Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by 

the  King  : " 


iND  ELAINE,  383 

His  eyes  glisten'd  :  she  fancied  "  is  it 
for  me?" 

And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all 
the  tale 

Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond 

sent,  the  quest 
Assign'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she 

knelt 

JFull  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed. 
And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open 
hand. 

Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the 
child 

That  does  the  task  assign'd,  he  kiss'd  * 
her  face. 

At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the 
floor. 

''Alas,"  he    said,   "your    ride  has 

wearied  you. 
Rest  must  you  have."    "  No  rest  for 

me,"  she  said  ; 
"Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at 

rest." 

What  might  she  mean  by  that  ?  his 

large  black  eyes. 
Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt 

upon  her, 

Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed 
itself 

In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple 
face ; 

And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext 
in  mind. 

And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more  ; 
But  did  not  love  the  color ;  woman's 
love. 

Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so 
turn'd 

Sighing,  and  feign'd  a  sleep  until  he 
slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro' 

the  fields. 
And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculp^ 

tured  gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin  ; 
There  bode  the  night  :  but  woke  with 

dawn,  and  past 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the 

fields. 

Thence  to  the  cave  :  so  day  by  day  she 
past 

In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended 
him, 


384 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  likewise  many  a  night :  and  Lan- 
celot 

Would,  the'  he  call'd  his  wound  a 

little  hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole, 

at  times 

tJrain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony, 
seem 

fJncourteous,  even  he  :  but  the  meek 
maid 

Sweetly  forebore  him  ever,  being  to 
ham 

Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick 
child, 

And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's 
first  fall, 

f)id  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep 
love 

•iTpbore  her  ;  till  the  hermit,  skill'd  in 
all 

The  simples  and  the  science  of  that 
time, 

Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved 
his  life. 

And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple 
blush, 

Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet 
Elaine, 

JVould  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 
-ler  parting  step,  and  held  her  ten- 
derly, 

A.nd  loved^  her  with  all  love  except  the 
love 

Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love 
their  best 

Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 
death 

In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 
And  peradventure  had  lie  seen  her 
first 

She  might  have  made  this  and  that 

other  world 
Another  world  for  the  sick  man  ;  but 

now 

The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten'd 
him, 

His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 
And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely 
true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid- 
sickness  made 
Fttll  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  re- 
fiolve. 


These,  as  bat  born  of  sickness,  could 
not  live  : 

For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 
again, 

Full  often  the  sweet  image  of  one 
face. 

Making   a  treacherous  quiet  in  his 
heart, 

Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 
Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly 
grace 

Beam'd  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  an- 

swer'd  not, 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew 

right  well 
What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but 

what  this  meant 
She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'<i 

her  sight, 
And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  th« 

fields 

Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmur'd    vain,  in  vain :  it  can- 
not be 

He  will  not  love  me  :  how  then  ?  musi 
I  die." 

Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird. 
That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few 
notes. 

Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and 
o'er 

For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "must 
I  die?" 

And  now  to  right  she  turn'd,  and  now 
to  left, 

And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in 

rest ; 

And   *  him  or  death  "  she  mutter' d, 

death  or  him,'* 
Again  and  like  a  burthen,  "  him  or 
death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt 

was  whole, 
To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three. 
There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her 

sweet  self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd 

her  best, 

She  came  before  Sir  Lanctlot,  for  she 

thought 

"If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal 
robes. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


385 


If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he 
fall." 

And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  asK  some  goodly  gift 
of  him 

For  her  own  self  or  hers  ;  "  and  do  not 
shun 

To  speak  the  wish  most  dear  to  your 

true  heart ; 
Such  service  have  ye  done  me,  that  I 

make 

My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 
am  I 

In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I 
can." 

Then  like  aghost  she  lifted  up  her  face, 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to 
y  speak. 

And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld 
her  wish, 

And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space 
Till  he  should  learn  it ;  and  one  morn 

it  chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden 

yews, 

And  said,     Delay  no  longer,  speak 

your  wish, 
Seeing  I  must  go  to-day  : "  then  out 

she  brake ; 
Going  ?  and  we  shall  never  see  you 

more. 

And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold 
word." 

Speak  :  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said, 
"  is  yours." 
Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she 
spoke  : 

"  I  have  gone  mad.    I  love  you  :  lec  me 
die." 

*'Ah,     sister,"    answer'd  Lancelot, 

"  what  is  this  ?  " 
And  innocently  extending  her  white 

arms. 

Your  love,"  she  said,    your  love  — 
to  be  your  wife." 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  ''Had I  chos'n 
to  wed, 

I  had    been   wedded    earlier,  sweet 
Elaine  : 

But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of 
mine." 

"  Ko,  no,"  she  cried,    I  care  not  to  be 
wife. 

But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your 
face, 

26 


To  6erv«3  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro, 

the  world." 
And   Lancelot  answer'd,  "  Nay,  the 

world,  the  world, 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid 

heart 

To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a 
tongue 

To  blare  its  own  interpretation — nay, 
Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  bro- 
ther's  love. 
And  your  good    father's  kindness." 
And  she  said 
Not  to  be  with  you,  noi  to  see  your 
face- 
Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are 
done." 

Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer'd,  ten 
times  nay  ! 
This  is  not  love  :  but  love's  first  flash 
in  youth. 

Most  common  :  yea  I  know  it  of  mine 
own  self  : 

And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your 
own  self 

Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower 
of  life 

To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice 

your  age  : 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and 

sweet 

Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  woman- 
hood. 

More  specially  should  your  good 
knight  be  poor, 

Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  ter- 
ritory 

Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the 
seas, 

So  that  would  make  you  happy  :  fur- 
thermore, 

Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  ye  were  my 
blood, 

In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your 
knight- 

This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your 
sake, 

And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke 
She  neither  blush'd  nor  shook,  but 

deathly- pale 
Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then 

replied ; 

"  Of  all  this  will  I  nothing  : "  and  so 
fell, 


386 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE, 


And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  ^o 
her  tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those 

black  walls  of  yew 
Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father. 

"  Ay,  a  flash, 
I  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom 

dead. 

Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord 
Lancelot. 

I  pray  you,use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion.'* 

Lancelot  said, 
•*  That  were  against  me :  what  I  can  I 
will  : " 

And  there  that  day  remain'd,  and 

toward  even 
Sent  for  his  shield  :  full  meekly  rose 

the  maid, 

Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 
shield ; 

Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon 

the  stones, 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back, 

and  look'd 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her 

sleeve  had  gone- 
And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking 

sound  ; 

And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  look- 
ing at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 
his  hand, 

Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 
This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he 
used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden 
sat  : 

His  very  shield  was  gone  ;  only  the 
case, 

Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor, 
left. 

But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  pic- 
ture form'd 

And  grew  between  her  and  the  pic- 
tured wall. 

Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low 
tones 

"  Have  comfort,"  whom  she  greeted 
quietly. 

Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  "Peace 
to  thee 


Sweet  sister,"  whom  she  answer'd  with 
all  calm. 

But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again^ 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  dis* 
tant  field 

Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  call'd; 
the  owls 

Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she 
mixt 

Her  fancies    with  the  sallow-rifted 

glooms 

Of  evening,  and  the  moanings  of  tho 
wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little 
song. 

And  call'd  her  song    The  song  of  Love 

and  Death." 
And  sang  it :  sweetly  could  she  make 

and  sing. 
"Sweet  is  true  love  tho'  given  in 

vain,  in  vain  ; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to 

pain  : 

I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 
"  Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  bitter 

death  must  be  : 
Love,  thou  art  bitter;  sweet  is  death  to 

me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 
"  Sweet  love,  that  seems  not  made  to 

fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us 
loveless  clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 
*'  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that 

could  be  ; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls 
for  me ; 

Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow  !  let  me 
die.'* 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her 

voice,  and  this, 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook  her  tower,  the  brothers 

heard,  and  thought 
With  shuddering  *'  Hark  the  Phantom 

of  the  house 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and 

call'd 

The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and 
fear 

Ran  to  her,  and  lo  !  the  blood-red  light 
of  dawn 


Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling 
me  die ! " 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we 
know 

Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so 
well 

Becomes  a  wonder  and  we  know  not 
why. 

So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face  and 
thought 

"Is  tliis  Elaine  ?  "  till  back  the  maiden 
fell. 

Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and 
lay. 

Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her 
eyes. 

At  last  she  said      Sweet  brothers, 

y ester  night 
I  seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again, 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the 

woods. 

And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with  the 
flood 

Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's 
boat. 

Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  he 
cape 

That  has  the  poplar  on  it  :  there  ve 
lixt 

Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 
And  yet  I  cried  because  ye  would  not 
pass 

Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king. 
And  yet  ye  would  not ;  but  this  night 

I  dream 'd 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood. 
And  then  I  said  "  Now  shall  I  have  my 

will  : " 

And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish 
remain'd. 

So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at 
last 

Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood, 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  king. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all, 
And.no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at 
me  ; 

But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder 
at  me. 

And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse 
at  me  ; 

Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  fare- 
wells to  me, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE, 
Let 


387 


Lancelot,  who  coldly  went  nor  bade  me 
one  : 

And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and 
my  love, 

And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity 
me. 

And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome 
me. 

And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall 
rest ! " 

"  Peace,"  said  her  father,     O  my 
child,  ye  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours 
to  go. 

So  far,  being  sick  ?  and  wherefore 

would  ye  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns 

us  all  ?  " 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave 

and  move. 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say 
I  never  loved  him  :  an  I  meet  with 

him, 

I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike 

him  down. 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him 

dead. 

For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the 
house." 

To  which  the  gentle  sister  made 
reply, 

"  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor 
be  wroth. 

Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's 
fault 

Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the 
highest." 

''Highest?"    the  Father  answer'd, 

echoing  "  highest?" 
(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her) 
nay, 

Daughter,  I  know  not  what  you  call 

the  highest  ; 
But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people 

know  it, 

He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open 
shame  : 

And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low  ?  " 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Aitolat; 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


*'  Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick 
am  I 

For  anger  :  these  are  slanders  :  never 
yet 

Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a 
foe. 

But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain  :  so  let  me 
pass. 

My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you, 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's 
best 

And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no 
return  : 

Yet,  seeing  ye  desire  your  child  to  live, 
Thanks,  but  ye  work  against  your  own 
desire  ; 

For  if  I  could  believe  the  things  ye 
say 

I  should  but  die  the  sooner  ;  where- 
fore cease 

Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly 
man 

Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean, 
and  die." 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come 
and  gone, 

She  with  a  face,  bright  as  for  sin  for- 
given 

Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she 
devised 

A  letter,  word  for  word  ;  and  when  he 
ask'd 

Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear 
lord? 

Then  will  I  bearit  gladly;  "  she  replied, 
*'  For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all 

the  world. 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."   Then  he 

wrote 

The  letter  she  devised ;  which  being 
writ 

And  folded,  O  sweet  father,  tender 
and  true. 

Deny  me  not,"  she  said  —  ye  never 
yet 

Denied  my  fancies  —  this,  however 
strange. 

My  latest :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it ;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out 
my  heart. 


Then  take  the  little  bed  on  whioh  I 
died 

For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like 

the  Queen's 
For  richness,  and   me  also  like  the 

Queen 

In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot- 
bier 

To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the 
Queen . 

There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine 
own  self. 

And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so 
well. 

And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man 
alone 

Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row.  and 
he 

Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the 
doors." 

She  ceased :  her  father  promised  ; 
whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem'd 
her  death 

Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the 
blood. 

But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on 

the  eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  slie 

died. 

So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from 

underground. 
Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with 

bent  brows 
Accompanying  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that 

shone 

Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon 

the  barge, 
Pall'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite, 
lay. 

There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the 
house, 

Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck, 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his 
face. 

So  those  two  brethren  from  the  charioli 
took 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


A  nd  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her 
bed, 

Set  ill  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazoniugs, 
And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying 
10  her 

"  Sister,  farewell  for  ever,"  and  again 
"  Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  iii 
tears. 

Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and 
the  dead 

Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with 

the  flood- 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter— all  her  bright  hair  stream- 
ing down  — 
A  nd  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in 
white 

All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-fea- 
tured face 

Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as 
dead 

But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she 
smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace 
craved 

Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly 
gift. 

Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise 
and  blow, 

With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his 
own, 

The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds  : 

for  he  saw 
One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the 

Queen 

Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen 
agreed 

With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seem'd  her  statue,  but 
that  he, 

Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss'd 
her  feet 

For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  a  piece  of  pointed  lace. 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 
walls. 

And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly 
heart. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side, 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward 
the  stream 


They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  ut- 
tered "  Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my 

joy. 

Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for 
you, 

These  jewels,  and   make  me  happy, 

making  them 
An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on 

earth, 

Or  necklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the 
swan's 

Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's :  these 

are  words  : 
Your  beauty  is  your  Ijeauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship 

of  it 

Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.  Such 

sin  in  words 
Perchance,  M^e  both  can  pardon  •  but, 

my  Queen, 
I  hear  of   rumors  flying  thro'  your 

court. 

Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and 
wife, 

Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect :  let  rumors 
be  : 

When  did  not  rumors  fly  ?  these,  as  I 
trust 

That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  noble' 

ness, 

I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  be- 
lieve." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turn'd 
away,  the  Queen 
Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering 
vine 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  casi 
them  otf , 

Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood 

was  green  ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold 

passive  hand 
Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the 

gems 

There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  re- 
plied. 

It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake 

Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and 
wife. 

This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill, 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE, 


It  can  be  broken  easier.   I  for  you 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite 

and  wrong 
To  one  whomever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
1  did  acknowledge  nobler.    What  are 

these  ? 

Piamonds  for  me?  they  had  been 

thrice  their  worth 
Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your 

own. 

To  loyal  hearts  the  vahie  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.    Not  for  me  ! 
For  her  !  for  your  new  fancy.  Only 
this 

Grant  me,  I  pray  you  :  have  your  joys 
apart. 

I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you 
keep 

So  much  of  what  is  graceful  :  and  my- 
self 

Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of 
courtesy 

In  which  as  Arthur's  queen  I  move 
and  rule  : 

So  cannot  sfjeak  my  mind.    An  end  to 
this  ! 

A  strange  one  !  yet  I  take  it  with 
Amen. 

So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her 
pearls  ; 

Deck  her  with  these ;  tell  her  she 

shines  me  down  : 
An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the 

Queen's 

Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
O  as  iiiiu-h  fairer  —  as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds— hers 

not  mine- 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  him- 
self, 

Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my 

will- 
She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized, 
And,  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide 
for  heat, 

Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash'd, 

and  smote  the  stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd, 

as  it  were. 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past 

away. 

Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half 
disguBt 


At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 
ledge. 

Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right 
across 

Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past 

the  barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest 

night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not, 
burst  away 
To  weep  and  wail  in  secret ;  and  the 
barge, 

On   to   the   palace-doorway  sliding, 
paused. 

There  two  stood  arm'd,  and  kept  the 

door  ;  to  whom. 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier. 
Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and 

eyes  that  ask'd 
''What  is  it?"  but  that  oarsman's 

haggard  face, 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that 

men 

Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken 
rocks 

On  some  cliff-side,  appall'd  them,  and 
they  said, 

"  He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  —  and 
she, 

Look  how  she  sleeps— the  Fairy  Queen, 
so  fair ! 

Yea,  but  how  pale  !  what  are  they  ? 

flesh  and  blood  ? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  fairy 

land  ? 

For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot 
die. 

But  that  he  passes  into  fairy  land." 

While  thus   they  babbled  of  the 

King,  the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights  :  then  turn'd 

the  tongueless  man 
From  the  half -face  to  the  full  eye,  and 

rose 

And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the 
doors. 

So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percl- 
vale 

And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the 
maid  ; 

And  reverently  they  bore  ber  into 
hall. 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


391 


Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  won- 

der'd  at  her, 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at 

her, 

And  last  the  Queen  herself  and  pitied 
her  : 

But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her 
hand, 

Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ; 
this  was  all. 

<'Most  noble  lord,  Sir  Lancelot  of 
the  Lake, 

I,  sometime  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  fare- 
well, 

Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of 
you. 

I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  re- 
turn, 

And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been 
my  death. 

And  therefore  to  our  lady  Guinevere, 

And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan. 

Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 

Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too,  Sir  Lance- 
lot, 

As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thus  he  read. 
And  ever  in  the  reading,  lords  and 
dames 

Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who 
read 

To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at 
times, 

So  touch'd  were  they,  half-thinking 

that  her  lips, 
Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved 

again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to 

them  all ; 
My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that 

hear, 

Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maid- 
en's death 

Bight  heavy  am  I ;  for  good  she  was 
and  true. 

But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all 
love 

In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love 
again  ; 

35^ot  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in 
youth. 


I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that 
I  gave 

No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a 
love  : 

To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony, 
Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who 
himself 

Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt, 
and  use. 

To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature :  what  I  could,  I 
did. 

I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell. 
Tho',  had  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would 

have  died, 
I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some 

rough  use. 
And  help'd  her  from  herself." 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after 
storm) 

Ye  might  at  least  have  done  her  so 

much  grace, 
Fair  lord,  as  would  have  kelp'd  her 

from  her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and 

hers  fell, 
He  adding. 

Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could 

not  be. 

Then  might  she  follow  me  thro'  the 

world,  she  ask'd  : 
It  could  not  be.   I  told  her  that  her 

love 

Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would 

darken  down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her— then 

would  I, 

More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded, 
poor, 

Estate  them  with  large  land  and  terri- 
tory 

In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 
seas, 

To  keep  them  in  all  joyance  :  more 
than  this 

1  could  not ;  this  she  would  not,  and 
she  died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  *'0 
my  knight, 
It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my  knight. 


5D2 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table 
Roand, 

To  see  that  she  be  buried  worship- 
fully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in 
all  the  realm 
Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly 
went 

The  marshall'd  order  of  their  Table 
Round, 

And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to 

see 

The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  un- 
known , 

Kor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obse- 
quies. 

And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a 
Queen. 

And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her 

comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half -forgotten  kings, 
Then    Arthur   spake   among  them, 

"  Let  her  tomb 
Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon. 
And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her 

feet 

Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon'd  on  her 
tomb 

In  letters  gold  and  azure  ! "  which 
was  wrought 

Thereafter  ;  but  when  now  the  lords 
and  dames 

And  people,  from  the  high  door  stream- 
ing, brake 

Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the 
Queqn, 

Who  mark'd  Sir  Lancelot  where  he 

moved  apart. 
Drew  near,  and   sigh'd   in  passing 

"  Lancelot. 
Forgive  me ;  mine  was  jealousy  in 

love." 

He  answer'd  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

"That  is  love's  curse  ;  pass  on,  my 

Queen,  forgiven." 
But  Arthur  who  beheld  his  cloudy 

brows 

Approach'd  liim,  and  with  full  affec- 
tion flung 

One  urm  about  his  neck,  and  spake 
and  said. 


"  Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in 
whom  I  have 
Most  love  and  most  affiance,  for  I 
know 

What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my 
side, 

And  many  a  time  have  watched  thee 
at  the  tilt 

Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-prac- 
tised knight. 

And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd  go 

To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his 
name. 

And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a 
man 

Made  to  be  loved  ;  but  now  I  would 
to  God, 

For  the  wild  people  say  wild  things  of 
thee. 

Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden, 

shaped,  it  seems, 
By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her 

face, 

If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the 
dead, 

Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair, 
W^ho  might  liave  brought  thee,  now  a 

lonely  man 
Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and 

fame. 

My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of 
the  Lake." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot.    Fair  she 
was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to 
be. 

To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an 
eye, 

To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 

heart- 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  liim,  but  free  love  will  not 

be  bound." 

''Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freest," 
said  the  King. 
"  Let  love  be  free  ;  free  love  is  for  the 
best  • 

And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of 
death, 

What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a 
love 


Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness?  yet 
thee 

She  f  ail'd  to  bind,  tlio'  being,  as  I  think, 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I 
know." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd  nothing,  but 
he  went, 

And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by. the  river  in  a  cove,  aiidwatch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his 
eyes 

And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her 

moving  down, 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and 

said 

Low  in  himself  "  Ah  simple  heart  and 
sweet, 

Ye  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a 
love 

Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.  Pray 

for  thy  soul  ? 
Ay,  that  will  I.  Farewell  too  —  now  at 

last  — 

Farewell ,  fair  lily.  <  Jealousy  in  love  ? ' 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir, 

jealous  pride  ? 
Queen,  if  I  grant  the  jealousy  as  of 

love, 

May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name 
and  fame 

Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that 
wanes  ? 

Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name 
to  me? 

Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a 
reproach, 

Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Stole  from  his  mother  —  as  the  story 
runs — 

She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious 
song 

Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and 
morn 

She  kiss'd  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my 
child. 

As  a  king's  son,  and  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky 
mere. 

Would  she  had  drown'd  me  in  it, 

where'er  it  be  ! 
For  what  am  I  ?  what  profits  me  my 

name 

Of  greatest  knight?  I  fought  for  it, 
and  have  it : 


THE  HOL  r  GRAIL,  393 

Pleasure  to  have  it,  none  ;  to  lose  it, 
pain  ; 


Now  grown  a  part  of  me  :  but  what 
use  in  it  ? 

To  make  men  wise  by  making  my  sin 
know  ? 

Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming 
great  ? 

Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a 
man 

Not  after  Arthur's  heart !  I  needs 

must  break 
These  bonds  that  so  defame  me  ;  not 

without 

She  wills  it :  would  I,  if  she  wili'd  it? 
nay. 

Who  knows  ?  but  if  I  would  not,  then 
may  God, 

I  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me 
far, 

And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten 
mere, 

Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the 
hills." 

So  groan'd  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorse- 
ful pain. 

Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 


THE  HOLY  GKAIL. 

From  noisef  ul  arms,  and  acts  of  prow- 
ess done 

In  tournament  or  tilt.  Sir  Percivale, 
Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood 

call'd  The  Pure, 
Had  pass'd  into  the  silent  life  of 

prayer. 

Praise,  fast,  and  alms ;  and  leaving 

for  the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long 

after,  died. 

And  one,  a  fellow-monk  among  the 
rest, 

Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond 
the  rest. 

And  honor'd  him,  and  wrought  inta 
his  heart 

A  way  by  love  that  waken' d  love  with- 
in. 

To  answer  that  which  came :  and  as 
they  sat 


394  THE  HOL 

Benealli  a  world-old  yew-tree,  darken- 
ing lialf 

The  cloisters,  on  a  gustful  April  morn 
That  pulf 'd  the  swaying  branches  into 
smoke 

Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when  he 
died, 

The  monk  Ambrosius  question' d  Perci- 
vale  : 

brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew- 
%  tree  smoke, 

Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hundred 
years  : 

For  never  have  I  known  the  world 
without, 

Nor  ever  stray'd  beyond  the  pale:  but 
thee, 

When  first  thou  camest — such  a  cour- 
tesy 

Spake  thro'  the  limbs  and  in  the 

voice — I  knew 
For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's 

hall ; 

For  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to 
coins, 

Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one 
of  you 

Stamp'd  with  the  image  of  the  King  ; 
and  now 

Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the 

Table  Kound, 
My  brother?  was  it  earthly  passion 

crost?" 

*'  Nay,"  said  the  knight ;  "  for  no 
such  jjassion  mine. 
-But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail 
fDrove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rival- 
ries, 

And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and 

sparkle  out 
Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women 

watch 

Who  wins,  who  falls  ;  and  waste  the 
spiritual  strengtli 

Within  us,  better  otfer'd  up  to  Hea- 
ven." 

To  whom  the  monk  :      The  Holy 

Grail  !— I  trust 
We  are  green  in  Heaven's  eyes ;  but 

liere  too  much 
We  moulder— as  to  things  without  I 

mean —  • 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest 

of  ours, 


Y  GRAIL. 

Told  us  of  this  in  our  reiectory, 
But  spake  with  such  a  sadness  and  so 
low 

We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said. 

What  is  it  ? 
The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes  and 

goes  ?  " 

Nay,  monk  !  what  phantom  ?  "  an-^ 
swer'd  Percivale. 
*'The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which 
our  Lord 

Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his 
own. 

This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aromat — 
After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the 
dead 

Went  wandering  o'er  Moriah — the 

good  saint, 
Arimathaean      Joseph,  journeying 

brought 

To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter 
thorn 

Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of  our 
Lord.  ^ 

And  there  awhile  it  bode  ;  and  if  a 
man 

Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd  at 
once, 

By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.  But  then  the 
times 

Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and  dis- 
appear'd." 
To  whom  the  monk  :     From  our  old 
books  I  know 
That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury, 

And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arvira- 

Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 
build ; 

And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from 

the  marsh 
A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 
For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours, 

but  seem 

Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I  have 
read. 

But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to- 
day?" 

**A  woman,"   answer'd  Percivale, 
a  nun. 

And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from 
me 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL 


395 


Than  sister  ;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the 
stone, 

A  holy  maid;  tho*  never  maiden  glow'd, 
But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maiden- 
hood, 

With  such  a  fervent  flame  of  human 
love. 

"^Tiich  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced 
and  shot 

Only  to  holy  things  ;  to  prayer  and 
praise 

She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms. 
And  yet, 

Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the 
Court, 

\    Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table 
Round, 

And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulter- 
ous race. 
Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 
Beat,  and  she  pray'd  and  fasted  all  the 
more. 

And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins, 
or  what 

Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for 
sin, 

A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old, 
Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or  six, 
And  each  of  these  a  hundred  winters 
old, 

From  our  Lord's  time.   And  when 

King  Arthur  made 
His  Table  Round,  and  all  men's  hearts 

became 

Clean  for  a  season,  surely  he  had 
thought 

That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come 
again ; 

But  sin  broke  out.    Ah,  Christ,  that  it 

would  come. 
And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wicked- 

ness ! 

•  *  O  Father  ! '  asked  the  maiden,  *  might 
it  come 

To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  ? '  <  Nay,' 
said  he, 

*  I  know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as 
snow.' 

And  so  she  pray'd  and  fasted,  till  the 
sun 

Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her, 
and  I  thought 


She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when 
I  saw  her, 

"For  on  a  day  she  sent  to  speak 
with  me. 

And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold 
her  eyes 

Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beauti- 
ful, 

Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  wonder- 
ful, 

Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 
And  *  O  my  brother,  Percivale,'  she 
said, 

*  Sweet  brother,  I  have  seen  the  Holy 
Grail : 

For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  1  heard  a 
sound 

As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 
Blown,  and   I  thought,  "It  is  not 

Arthur's  use 
To  hunt  by  moonlight ; "   and  the 

slender  sound 
As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance 

grew 

Coming  upon  me  —  O  never  harp  nor 
horn, 

Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or 

touch  with  hand, 
Was  like  that  music  as  it  came  ;  and 

then 

Stream' d  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and 

silver  beam, 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the 

Holy  Grail, 
Rose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if 

alive, 

Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were 
dyed 

With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall ; 
And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the 
Grail 

Pass'd,  and  the  beam  decay'd,  and 

from  the  walls 
The  rosy  quiverings  died   into  the 

night. 

So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 
Among  us,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and 
pray, 

And  tell  thy  T)rother  knights  to  fast 
and  pray. 

That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be 

seen 

By  thee  and  those,  all  the  world  ba 
heal'd.' 


396 


THE  HOL  Y  GRAIL. 


**Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I  spake 
of  this 

To  all  men ;  and  myself  fasted  and 
pray'd 

Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a 
week 

Fasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  utter- 
most, 

Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would 
be. 

*'  And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever 
moved 

Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad, 
*  God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art  beau- 
tiful,' 

Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb' d  him 

knight ;  and  none, 
In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a 

knight 

Till  Galahad ;  and  this  Galahad,  when 
he  heard 

My  sister's  vision,  fill'd  me  with  amaae; 
His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 
seem'd 

Hers,  and  himself  her  brother  more 
than  1. 

**  Sister  or  brother  none  had  he  ;  but 
some 

Call'd  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 
said 

Begotten  by  enchantment — chatterers 
they. 

Like  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and 
down. 

That  gape  for   flies  —  we  know  not 

whence  they  come  ; 
For  when  was  Lancelot .  wanderingly 

lewd? 

"  But  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden 

shore  away 
Clean  from  her  forehead    all  that 

wealth  of  hair 
Which  made  a  silken  mat-work  for  her 

feet ; 

And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and 
long 

A  strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with 

silver  thread 
And  crimson  in  the  belt  a  strange 

device, 

A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam ; 
And  saw  tbe  bright  boy-knight,  and 
bound  it  on  him, 


Saying,  *My  knight,  my   love,  my 

knight  of  heaven, 
O  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one 

with  mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind  my 

belt.  ^ 
Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I 

have  seen. 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown 

thee  king 

Far  in  the  spiritual  city  : '  and  as  she 
spake 

She  sent  the  deathless  passion  in  her 

eyes 

Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and 

laid  her  mind 
On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

''Then  came  a  year  of  miracle:  O 
brother, 

In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a  vacant 
chair, 

Fasliion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away. 
And  carven  with  strange  figures  ;  and 

in  and  out 
The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 
Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could 

read. 

And  Merlin  call'd  it  *  The  Siege  peril- 
ous,' 

Perilous  for  good  and  ill ;  'for  there,' 
he  said, 

'  No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 
himself  : ' 

And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sal 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost  ;  but 
he, 

Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin's 
doom, 

Cried,  '  If  I  lose  myself  I  save  my- 
self ! ' 

"  Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came 
to  pass. 

While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the 
hall. 

That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Mer- 
lin's chair. 

"  And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat, 
we  heard 
A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  roofs. 
And  rending,  and  a  blast,  and  over- 
head 

Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a 
cry 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


397 


And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the 
hall 

A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more  clear 

than  day  : 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the 

Holy  Grail 
All  over  cover' d  with   a  luminous 

cloud, 

And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and 
it  past. 

But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow's 
face 

As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights 
arose, 

And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb 
men 

Stood,  till  I  found  a  voice  and  sware  a 
vow. 

"  I  sware  a  vow  before  them  all,  that 
I, 

Because  I  had  not  seen  the  Grail, 

would  ride 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  in  quest  of 

it. 

Until  I  found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it ;  and  Galahad  sware 
the  vow. 

And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot's 

cousin,  sware. 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 

the  knights, 
And  Gav/ain  eware,  and  louder  than 

the  rest." 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius, 
asking  hlra, 
'<What  said  the  King?  Did  Arthur 
take  the  vow? " 

"  Nay,  for  my  lord,"  said  Percivale, 
"  the  king, 
"Was  not  in  hall :  for  early  that  same 
day. 

Scaped  thro'  a  cavern  from  a  bandit 
hold, 

An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the 
hall 

Crying  on  help  :  for  all  her  shining 
hair 

Was  smear'd  with  earth,  and  either 

milky  arm 
Ked-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and 

all  she  wore 
Torn  as  a  sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is 

torn 


In  tempest :  so  the  king  arose  and 
went 

To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those 
wild  bees 

That  made  such  honey  in  his  realm. 
Howbeit 

Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw, 
lieturning  o'er  the  plain  that  then 
began 

To  darken  under  Camelot ;  whence  the 
king 

Look'd  up,  calling  aloud,  '  Lo  there ! 
the  roofs 

Of  our  great  hall  are  rolled  in  thunder- 
smoke  ! 

Pray  Heaven,  thev  be  not  smitten  by 
the  bolt.' 

For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of 
ours, 

As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his 
knights 

Feasted,  and  as  the  stateliest  under 
heaven. 

O  brother,  had  you  known  our 
mighty  hall. 
Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long 
a  go ! 

For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 
And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by 
roof, 

Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire. 
By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rush- 
ing brook, 
Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin 
built. 

And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set 
betwixt 

With  many  a  mvstic  symbol,  gird  the 
hall: 

And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying 
men, 

And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying 

beasts, 

And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect 
men. 

And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  grow- 
ing wings, 
And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a 
crown, 

And  peak'd  wings   pointed  to  the 

Northern  Star. 
And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and 

the  crown 


396  THE  HOL 

And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 

and  liame 
At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far  fields, 
Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes, 
Behold  it,  crying,  <  We  have  still  a 

king.' 

"  And,  brother,  had  you  known  our 

hall  within, 
Bfoader  and  higher  than  any  in  all 

the  lands  ! 
Where  twelve  great  windows  blazon 

Arthur's  wars. 
And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the 

board 

Streams  thro'  the  twelve  great  battles 

of  our  King, 
Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern 

end, 

Wealthy  with  wandering    lines  of 

mount  and  mere, 
Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand,  Ex- 

calibur. 

And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter 
to  it, 

And  blank  :  and  who  shall  blazon  it  ? 

when  and  how  ?  — 
O  there  perchance,  when  all  our  wars 

are,  done, 
The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast  away. 

*'  So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode  the 
King, 

In  horror  lest  the  work  by  Merlin 
wrought, 

Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  van- 
ish, wrapt 

In  unremorsef ul  folds  of  rolling  fire. 

And  in  he  rode,  and  up  1  glanced,  and 
saw 

The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all  : 
And  many  of  thoae  who  burnt  the  hold, 

their  arms 
Hack'd,  and  their  foreheads  grimed 

with  smoke,  and  soar'd, 
Follow'd,  and  in  among  bright  faces, 

ours. 

Full  of  the  vision,  prest:  and  then  the 
King 

Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  *  Perci- 
vale,' 

(Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult- 
some 

A'owing,  and  some  protesting),  *  what 
is  tAxis  ? ' 


Y  GRAIL. 

O  brother,  when  I  told  him  what 
had  chanced, 
My  sister's  vision,  and  the  rest,  his 
face 

Darken'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than 
once, 

When  some  brave  deed  seem'd  to  b* 

done  in  vain. 
Darken ;  and  *  Woe  is  me,  my  knights,* 

he  cried, 

<  Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn 
the  vow.' 

Bold  was  mine  answer,  'Had  thyself 

been  here. 
My  King,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn.' 

'  Yea,  yea,'  said  lie, 
'  Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen 

the  Grail  ?  * 

'  Nay,  Lord,  I  heard  the  sound,  I 
saw  the  light. 
But  since  I  did  not  see  the  Holy 
Thing, 

I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  1  saw.' 
"Then  when  he  asked  us,  knight  by 

knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as 

one  : 

'Nay,  Lord,  and  therefore  have  we 
sworn  our  vows.' 

** '  Lo,  now,'  said  Arthur,  'have  ye 
seen  a  cloud  ? 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to  see? ' 

"Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and 
in  a  voice 
Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur, 
call'd, 

*  But  I,  Sir  Artliur,  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
I  saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a  cry— 
O  Galahad,  and  O  Galahad,  follow  me.* 

" '  Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,'  said  the 
King,  '  for  such 
As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these, 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a 
sij;n — 

Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than 
she— 

A  sign  to  riaim  this  Order  which  I 
made. 

But  you,  that  follow  but  the  leader's 
beir 

(Brother,  the  King  was  hard  upon  his? 
knights) 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


399 


*  Taliessin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song, 
And  one  hatli  sung  and  all  the  dumb 
will  sing. 

Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  over- 
borne 

Five  knights  at  once,  and  every  young- 
er knight, 
Un proven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 
Till  overborne  by  one,  he  learns— and 

ye, 

What  are  ye  ?  Galahads  ?— no,  nor  Per- 
civales ' 

(For  t  lus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 
me  close 

After  Sir  Galahad) ; '  nay,'  said  he, '  but 
men 

With  strength  and  will  to  right  the 

wrong'd,  of  power 
To  lay  the  sudden  heads  of  violence  flat. 
Knights  that  in  twelve  great  battles 

splash' d  and  dyed 
The  strong  White  Horse  in  his  own 

heathen  blood — 
But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind 

will  see. 

Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,  being 
jnade  : 

Yet— for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my 
realm 

Pass  thro'  this  hall— how  often,  O  my 
knights, 

Your  places  being  vacant  at  my  side. 
This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come 
and  go 

Unchallenged,  while  you  follow  wan- 
dering fires 

Lost  in  the  quagmire  ?  Many  of  you, 
yea  most, 

Return  no  more  :  ye  think  I  show  my- 
self 

Too  dark  a  prophet :  come  now,  let  us 
meet 

The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one  full 
field 

Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more  the 
King, 

Before  you  leave  him  for  this  Quest, 

may  count 
The  yet-unbroken  strength  of  all  his 

knights, 

Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he  made.' 

"  So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from 
under  ground, 
^11  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur  closed 


And  clash'd  in  such  a  tourney  and  so 
full. 

So  many  lances  broken — never  yet 
Had  Camelot  seen  the  like,  since  Arthur 
came. 

And  I  myself  and  Galahad,  for  a 
strength 

Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 
So  many  knights  that  all  the  people 
cried. 

And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their 
heat. 

Shouting  '  Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Perci- 
vale  ! ' 

"  But  when  the  next  day  brake  from 

under  ground — 
O  brother,  had  you  known  our  Camelot, 
Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so  old 
The  King  himself  had  fears  that  it 

would  fall, 
So  strange,  and  rich,  and  dim ;  for 

where  the  roofs 
Totter'd  toward  each  other  in  the  sky, 
Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of 

those 

Who  watch'd  us  pass  ;  and  lower,  and 

where  the  long 
Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  weigh'd  the 

necks 

Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls, 
Thicker  than    drops   from  thunder, 

showers  of  flowers 
Fell  as  we  past ;  and  men  and  boys 

astride 

On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griffin,  swan, 
At  all  the  comers,  named  us  each  by 
name. 

Calling  '  God  speed  ! '  but  in  the  street 
below 

The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich 
and  poor 

Wept,  and  the  King  himself  could 

hardly  speak 
For  grief,  and  in  the  middle  street  the 

Queen, 

Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail'd  and 

shriek'd  aloud, 
'  This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our 

sins.' 

And  then  we  reach'd  the  weirdly-sculp- 
tured gate, 

Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd 
mystically, 

And  thence  departed  every  one  his  way. 


400  THE  HOL 

And  I  was  lifted  up  in  heart,  and 
thought 

Of  all  my  lalte-shown  prowess  in  the 
lists, 

How  my   strong  lance  had  beaten 

down  the  knights, 
So  many  and  famous  names  ;  and  never 

yet 

Had  heaven  appear'd  so  blue,  nor  earth 
so  green, 

For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I 
knew 

That  I  should  light  upon  the  Holy 
Grail. 

Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of  our 
King, 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires, 

Came  like  a  driving  gloom  across  my 
mind. 

Then  every  evil  word  I  had  spoken 
once, 

And  every  evil  thought  I  had  thought 
of  old, 

And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did, 
Awoke  and  cried,  *  This  Quest  is  not  for 
thee.' 

And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  my- 
self 

Alone,  and  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns. 
And  I  was  thirsty  even  unto  death  ; 
And  I,  too,  cried,  *  This  Quest  is  not  for 
thee." 

And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thought 
my  thirst 

Would  slay  me,  saw  deej)  lawns,  and 
then  a  brook. 

With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisp- 
ing white 

Play'd  ever  back  upon  the  sloping 
wave. 

And  took  both  ear  and  eye ;  and  o'er 
the  brook 

Were  apr)le-trees,  and  apples  by  the 
brook 

Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns.  '  I  will  rest 
here,' 

I  said,  *  1  am  not  worthy  of  the  Quest ; ' 
But  even  while  I  drank  the  brook,  and 
ate 

The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at 
once 

Fell  into  dust,  and  1  was  left  alone, 


Y  GRAIL, 

And  thirsting,  in  a  land  of  sand  and 
thorns. 

And  then  behold  a  woman  at  a  door 
Spinning  ;  and  fair  the  house  whereby 
she  sat, 

And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  and  inno- 
cent. 

And  all  her  bearing  gracious  ;  and  she 
rose 

Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who 
should  say, 

*  Rest  here  ; '  but  when  I  touched  her, 

lo  !  she,  too. 
Fell  into  dust  and  nothing,  and  the 
house 

Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed, 
And  in  it  a  dead  babe  ;  and  also  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

"  And  on  I  rode,  and  greater  was  my 
thirst. 

Then  flash'd  a  yellow  gleam  across  the 
world, 

And  where  it  smote  the  ploughshare  in 
the  field. 

The  ploughman  left  his  ploughing,  and 
fell  down 

Before  it ;  where  it  glitter'd  on  her 
pail, 

The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  fell 
down 

Before  it,  and  I  knew  not  why,  but 
thoujjht 

*  The  sun  is  rising,'  tho'  the  sun  had 

risen. 

Then  was  I  ware  of  one  that  on  me 
moved 

In  golden  armor  with  a  crown  of  gold 
About  a  casque  all  jewel?  ;  and  his 
horse 

In  golden  armor  jewell'd  everywhere  : 
And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing  me 
blind  ; 

And  seem'd  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the 
world. 

Being  so  huge.  But  when  I  thought  he 
meant 

To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo  !  he,  too. 
Opened  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he 
came. 

And  up  I  went  and  touch'd  him,  and 
be,  too, 

Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone 
And  wearying  in  a  land  of  sand  and 
thorns. 


THE  HOLT  GRAIL. 


401 


**  And  I  rode  on  and  found  a  mighty 
hill, 

And  on  the  top,  a  city  wall'd  :  the  spires 
Prick'd  with  incredible  pinnacles  into 
heaven. 

And  by  the  gateway  stirr'd  a  crowd  ; 
and  these 

Cried  to  me  climbing,  '  Welcome,  Per- 
civale  ! 

Thou  mightiest  and  thou  purest  among 
men  ! ' 

And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found 
at  top 

No  man,  nor  any  voice.  And  thence  I 
past 

Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  I  saw 
That  man  had  once  dwelt  there  ;  but 

there  I  found 
Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 

*  Where  is  that  goodly  company,'  said  I, 

*  That  so  cried  out  upon  me  V '  and  he 

had 

Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet 
gasp'd 

*  Whence  and  what  art  thou  ! '  and  even 

as  he  spoke 
Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear'd,  and  I 
Wa»  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried  in 

frief, 
I  lind  the  Holy  Grail  itself 
And  touch  it,  it  will  crumble  into  dust.' 

"  And  thence  I  dropt  into  a  holy  vale, 
Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where  the 
vale 

Was  lowest,  found  a  chapel  and  thereby 
A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage, 
To  whom  I  told  my  phantoms,  and  he 
said : 

**  *  O  son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility, 
The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all; 
For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 
6*  Himself 

Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
Take  thou  my  robe,"  she  said,  for 
all  is  thine," 

And  all  her  form  shone  forth  with  sud- 
den light 

So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and 
she 

Follow'd  him  down,  and  like  a  flying 
star 

Led  on  the  gray-hair' d  wisdom  of  the 


But  her  thou  hast  not  known  :  for  what 
is  this 

Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and  thy 

sins  ? 

Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save  thy- 
self 

As  Galahad.'   When  the  hermit  made 
an  end. 

In  silver  armor    suddenly  Galahad 
shone 

Befoi  e  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter'd,  and  we  knelt 
in  prayer. 

And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burn- 
ing thirst 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone  ;  but  he  : 
*  Saw  ye  no  more  ?  1,  Galahad,  saw  the 
Grail, 

The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the 
shrine  : 

I  saw  the  tiery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and 
went ; 

And  hither  am  I  come  ;  and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first  to 
see, 

This  Holy  Thing,  fail'd  from  my  side, 
nor  come 

Cover'd,  but  moving  with  me  night  and 
day, 

Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  black- 

en'd  marsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain 

top 

Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere  be- 
low 

Blood-red.    And  in  the  strength  of  this 
I  rode, 

Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere, 
And  past  thro'  Pagan  realms,  and  made 

them  mine. 
And  clash' d  with  Pagan  hordes,  and 

bore  them  down. 
And  brake  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength 

of  this 

Come  victor.   But  my  time  is  hard  at 
hand. 

And  hence  I  go  ;  and  one  will  crown  me 
king 

Far  in  the  spiritual  city,  and  come  thou, 
too. 

For  thou  Shalt  see  the  vision  when  I 
go.' 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


402 

"  Wliile  thus  lie  spake,  his  eye,  dwell- 
ing on  mine, 
Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I 
^rew 

One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  believed. 
Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane,  we 
went. 

"  There  rose  a  hill  that  none  but  man 
could  climb, 
Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  water- 
courses— 

Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain'd 
it,  storm 

Round  us  and  death  ;  for  every  moment 
glanced 

His  silver  arms  and  gloom'd :  so  quick 
and  thick 

The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left 
and  right 

Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us, 
dead, 

Yea,  rotten  with  a  hundred  years  of 
death, 

Sprang  into  fire  :  and  at  the  base  we 
found 

On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
A  great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil 
smell, 

Part  black ,  part  whiten'd  with  the  bones 
of  men, 

Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient 
king 

Had  built  a  way,  where,  link'd  with 

many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great 

sea. 

And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge  by 
bridge, 

And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he  crost 
Sprang  into  tire  and  vanish'd,  tho'  I 
yearn'd 

To  follow  ;  and  thrice  above  him  all 

the  heavens 
Open'd  and  blazed  with  thunder  such 

as  seem'd 

Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God  :  and 
tirst 

At  once  I  saw  him  far  on  the  great  sea. 
In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear  ; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a  luminous 
cloud. 

And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the 
boat 


If  boat  it  were — I  saw  not  whence  it 
came. 

And  when  the  heavens  open'd  and 

blazed  again 
Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star— 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the  boat 
Become  a  living  creature  clad  with 

wings  ? 

And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Redder  than  any  rose,  a  joy  to  me, 
For  now  I  knew  the  veil  had  been  with- 
drawn. 

Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed 
again 

Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  beyond 
the  star 

I  saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her  spires 
And  gateways  in  a  gloiy  like  one  pearl — 
No  larger,tlio'  the  goal  of  all  the  saints- 
Strike  from  the  sea  ;  and  from  the  star 

there  shot 
A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and  there 
Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  Holy 

Grail, 

Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall 
see. 

Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drown- 
ing the  deep. 

And  how  my  feet  recross'd  the  death- 
f  ul  rid^e 

No  memory  in  me  lives  ;  but  that  I 
touch'd 

The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I  know  ;  and 
thence 

Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy 
man, 

Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more, 
return'd 

To  whence  I  came,  the  gate  of  Arthur's 
wars." 

"  O  brother,"  ask'd  Ambrosius,— 
for  in  sooth 
These  ancient  books— and  they  would 

win  thee— teem, 
Only  I  find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 
With  miracles  and  marvels  like  to 
these, 

Not  all  unlike  ;  which  oftentime  I  read, 
Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with  ease. 
Till  my  head  swims  ;  and  then  go  forth 
and  pass 

Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so 
close, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


403 


And  almost  plaster'd  like  a  martin's 
nest 

To  these  old  walls— and  mingle  with 
our  folk  ; 

And  knowing  every  honest  face  of 
theirs, 

As  well  as  ever  shepherd  knew  his 
sheep, 

And  every  homely  secret  in  their 
hearts, 

Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old 
wives, 

And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings,  ly- 
ings-in, 

And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the 
place. 

That  have  no  meaning  half  a  league 
away  : 

Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when  they 
rise, 

Chafferings  and  chatterings  at  the  mar- 
ket-cross. 

Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 
of  mine, 

Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their 

eggs— 

O  brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad 
Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in  your 

quest. 
No  man,  no  woman?  " 

Then,  Sir  Percivale  : 
All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a 
vow. 

And  women  were  as  phantoms.  O,  my 
brother. 

Why  wilt  thou  shame  me  to  confess  to 
thee 

How  far  I  falter' d  from  my  quest  and 
vow  ? 

For  after  I  had  lain  so  many  nights 
A  bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and 
snake. 

In  grass  and  burdock,  I  was  changed  to 
wan 

And  meagre,  and  the  vision  had  not 
come, 

And  then  I  chanced  upon  a  goodly  town 
With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle 
of  it ; 

Thither  I  made,  and  there  was  I  €lis- 
arm'd 

By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower  : 
But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold 
The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the  one, 


Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had 

ever 

Made  my  heart  leap  ;  for  when  I  moved 
of  old 

A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall. 
And  she  a  slender  maiden,  all  my  heart 
Went  after  her  with  longing  :  yet  we 
twain 

Had  never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a  vow. 
And  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again, 
And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was 
dead. 

And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state 

were  hers. 
And  while  I  tarried,  every  day  she  set 
A  banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me  ;  for  all  her  longing  and  her 

will 

Was  toward  me  as  of  old  ;  till  one  fair 
morn, 

I  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 
That  flash'd  across  her  orchard  under- 
neath 

Her  castle-walls,  she  stole  upon  my 
walk, 

And  calling  me  the  greatest  of  all 
knights. 

Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss'd  me  the 

first  time, 
And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth  to 

me. 

Then  T  remember'd  Arthur's  warning 
word. 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires. 

And  the  Quest  faded  in  my  heart. 
Anon, 

The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to 
me, 

With  supplication  both  of  knees  and 
tongue : 

'  We  have  heard  of  thee  :  thou  art  our 

greatest  knight, 
Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe  • 
Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us. 
And  thou  shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our 

land.' 

O  me,  my  brother !  but  one  night  my 
vow 

Burnt  me  within,  so  that  I  rose  and 
fled. 

But  wail'd  and  wept,  and  hated  mine 
own  self, 

And  ev'n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but 
her ; 


404 


THE  HOL  Y  GRAIL, 


Then  after  I  was  join'd  with  Galahad 
Oared  not  for  her,  nor  anything  upon 
earth." 

Then  said  the  monk,  "Poor  men, 

when  yule  is  cold. 
Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 
And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 
Ever  so  little  ;  yea,  and  blest  be  Heaven 
That  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor 

house  of  ours. 
Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard,  to 

warm 

My  cold  heart  with  a  friend  :  butO  the 
pity 

To  find  thine  own  first  love  once  more 
—to  hold, 

Hold  her  a  wealthy  bride  within  thine 
arms. 

Or  all  but  hold,  and  then— cast  her 
aside. 

Foregoing  all  h^r   sweetness,  like  a 
weed. 

For  we  that  want* the  warmth  of  double 
life. 

We  that  are  plagued  with  dreams  of 

something  sweet 
Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a  life  so  rich, — 
Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak  too  earthly- 
wise, 

Seeing  I  never  stray 'd  beyond  the  cell. 
But  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his  earth. 
With  earth  about  him  everywhere,  de- 

spi^" 

All  fasi  a  (I  penance.   Saw  ye  none 

besidis 
None  of  your  knights?" 

"  Yea  so,"  said  Percivale  : 
One  night  my  pathway  swerving  east, 
I  saw 

The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir 
Bors 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon  : 
And  toward  liim  spurr'd  and  hail'd 

him,  and  he  me. 
And  each  made  joy  of  either  ;  then  he 

ask'd, 

'Where  is  he?  hast  thou  seen  him— 

Lancelot  ? '  *  Once,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  *  he  dash'd  across 

me — mad. 
And  maddening  what  he  rode  :  and 

when  J  cried, 
**  Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a  quest 


So  hotly  ?  "  Lancelot  shouted,  Stay 
me  not ! 

I  have  been  the  sluggard,  and  I  ride 
apace. 

For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way." 
So  vanish 'd.' 

"Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 
Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot, 
Because  his  former  madness,  once  tlie 
talk 

And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  re 
turn'd  ; 

For  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin  so  worship 
him 

That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them  ;  to  Bors 
Beyond  the  rest :  he  well  had  been 
content 

Not  to  have  seen ,  so  Lancelot  might 

have  seen. 
The  Holy  Cup  of  healing  ;  and,  indeed- 
Being  so  clouded  with ,  his  grief  and 

love. 

Small  heart  was  his  after  the  Holy 
Quest : 

If  God  wodld  send  the  vision,  well :  if 
not. 

The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands^  of 
heaven. 

"And  then,  with  small  adventure 
met.  Sir  Bors 
Rode  to  the  lonest  tract  of  all  the 
realm. 

And  found  a  people  there  among  their 
crags, 

Our  race  and  blood,  a  remnant  that 
were  left 

Paynim  amid  their  circles,  and  the 
stones 

They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven  ;  and 

their  wise  men 
Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which 

can  trace 

The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scolT'd 
at  him 

At  this  high  Quest  as  at  a  simple 
thing  : 

Told  him  he  follow'd— almost  Arthur's 
words — 

A  mocking  fire  :  '  what  other  fire  than 
lie. 

Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the 

blossom  blows, 
And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is 

warm'd?' 


THE  UOL  Y  GRAIL. 


405 


And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the 

rough  crowd, 
Hearing  he  had  a  difference  with  their 

priests, 

Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged 

him  into  a  cell 
Of   great   piled    stones ;   and  Ijing 

bounden  there 
In  darkness  thro'  innumerable  hours 
He  heard  the  hollow-ringing  heavens 

sweep 

Over  him,  till  by  miracle — what  else  ? — 
Heavy  as  it  was,  a  great  stone  slipt  and 
fell. 

Such  as  no  wind  could  move :  and 

thro'  the  gap 
Glimmer' d  the  streaming  scud :  then 

came  a  night 
Still  as  the  day  was  loud  ;  and  thro' 

the  gap 

The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur's  Table 
Round — 

For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because 
they  roll 

Thro'  such  around  in  heaven,  we  named 
the  stars. 

Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our  king— 
And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar 
friends, 

In  on  him  shone,  '  And  then  to  me,  to 
me,' 

Said  good  Sir  Bors,  *  beyond  all  hopes 
of  mine, 

Who  scarce  had  pray'd  or  ask'd  it  for 
myself — 

Across  the  seven  clear  stars— O  grace 
to  me — 

In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Before  a  burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
Glided  and  past,  and  close  upon  it 
peal'd 

A  sharp  quick  thunder.'  Afterwards 
a  maid, 

Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her  kin 
In  secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him 
go." 

To  whom  the  monk  :  "  And  I  remem- 
ber now 

That  pelican  on  the  casque.   Sir  Bors 
it  was 

Who  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our 
board ; 

And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace  was 
he : 


A  square-set  man  and  honest ;  and  his 
eyes. 

An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth 
withii^. 

Smiled  with  his  lips— a  smile  beneath 
a  cloud, 

But  heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny 
one  : 

Ay,  ay.  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ?  But  when 

ye  reach'd 
The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights  re- 

turn'd, 

Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur's  prO' 
phecy. 

Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and  what 
the  King?" 

Then  answer'd   Percivale :  '-'And 
that  can  I, 
Brother,  'and  truly ;  since  the  living 
words 

Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our 
King 

Pass  not  from  door  to  door  and  out 
again, 

But  sit  within  the  house.    O,  when  we 
reach'd 

The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as  they 
trode 

On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 
Crack'd  basilisks,  and  splinter'd  cock- 
atrices. 

And  shatter'd  talbots,  which  had  left 

the  stones 
Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us  to 

the  hall. 

"  And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dai's- 
throne, 

And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 
Quest, 

Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a  tithe  of 
them. 

And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before 
the  King. 

Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade 
me  hail. 

Saying,  *A  welfare  in  thine  eye  re- 
proves 

Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  for 
thee 

On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding 
ford. 

So  fierce  a  gale  made  havoc  here  of 
late 


406  THE  HOL 

Among  the  strange  devices  of  our 
kings ; 

Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall  of 
ours, 

And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded 
for  us 

Half-wrench'd  a  golden  wing ;  but  now 

— the  quest, 
This  vision— hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 

Cup, 

That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury ? ' 

So  when  I  told  him  all  thyself  hast 
heard, 

Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  re- 
solve 

To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life, 
He  answer'd  not,  but,  sharply  turning, 
ask'd 

Of  Gawain,  *  Gawain,  was  this  Quest 
for  thee  ? ' 

*  Nay,  lord,'  said  Gawain,  *  not  for 
such  as  I. 

'    Therefore  I  communed  with  a  saintly 
man, 

Who  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not 
for  me  ; 

For  I  was  much   awearied  of  the 
Quest : 

But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  field. 
And  merry  maidens  m  it ;  and  then 
this  gale 

Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  ten  ting-pin, 
And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
With  all  discomfort ;  yea,  and  but  for 
this, 

My  twelvemonth  and  a  day  were  pleas- 
ant to  me.' 

He  ceased  ;  and  Arthur  turn'd  to 
whom  at  first 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  entering, 
push'd 

Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,  caught 
his  hand. 

Held  it,  and  there,  lialf-hidden  by  him, 

stood. 

Until  the  King  espied  him,  saying  to 
him, 

'Hail,  Bors!      ever  loyal  man  and 
true 

Could  see  it,  thou  liast  seen  the  Grail ; ' 
and  Bors, 

'Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  of  it, 


T  GRAIL. 

I  saw  it : '  and  the  tears  were  in  his 
eyes." 

Then  there  remain'd  but  Lancelot, 
for  the  rest 
Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the 
storm  ; 

Perhaps,  like  him  of  Cana  in  Holy 
Writ, 

Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last ; 

'Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,'  ask'd  the 
King,  '  my  friend. 

Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail'd 
for  thee  ? ' 
*  Our  mightiest ! '  answer'd  Lance- 
lot, with  a  groan ; 

O  King  !  '—and  when  he  paused,  me- 
thought  I  spied 

A  dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes — 

*  O  King,  my  friend,  if  friend  of  thine 
I  be. 

Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their 
sin. 

Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for 
slime, 

Slime  of  the  ditch  :  but  in  me  lived  a 
sin 

So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of 
pure, 

Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and 
clung 

Round  that  one  sin,  until  tlie  whole- 
some flower 

And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as 
each, 

Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder ;  and  when 

thy  knights 
Sware,  1  sware  with  them  only  in  the 

hope 

That  could  I  touch  or  see  th6  Holy 
Grail 

They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder ,  Then 
I  spake 

To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and 
said. 

That  save  they  could  be  pluck'd  asun- 
der, all 

My  quest  were  but  in  vain  ;  to  whom  I 
vow'd 

That  I  would  work  according  as  he 
will'd. 

And  forth  1  went,  and  while  I  yearn 'd 

and  strove 
To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart. 
My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old, 


THE  HOL 

And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far 
away  ; 

There  was  I  beaten  down  by  little  men, 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving  of 
my  sword 

And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been  enow 
To  scare  them  from  me  once  ;  and  then 
I  came 

All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore, 
Wide  flats,  where  nothing  but  coarse 

grasses  grew ; 
But  such  a  blast,  my  King,  began  to 

blow, 

So  loud  a  blast  along  the  shore  and 
sea. 

Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the 
blast, 

Tho'  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all 
the  sea 

Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a  river,  and  the  clouded 
heavens 

Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the 
sound. 

And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam  sway'd 
a  boat, 

Half-swallow'd  in  it,  anchor'd  with  a 
chain  ; 

And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I  said, 
"I  will  embark  and  I  will  lose  myself 
And  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my  sin. 
I  burst  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  th 
boat. 

Seven  days  I  drove  along  the  dreary 
deep, 

And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all 
the  stars ; 

And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 
night 

I  heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the 
surge, 

And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and 
looking  up, 

Behold,  the  enchanted  towers  of  Car- 
bon ek, 

A  castle  like  a  rock  upon  a  rock, 
With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the 
sea, 

And  steps  that  met  the  breaker  !  there 
was  none 

Stoed  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side 
That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon  was 
full. 

Then  from  the  boat  I  leapt,  and  up  the 
stairs. 


Y  GRAIL.  407 

There  drew  my  sword.  With  sudden- 
flaring  manes 

Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright 
like  a  man, 

Each  gript  a  shoulder,  and  I  stood  be- 
tween ; 

And,  when  1  would  have  smitten  them, 

heard  a  voice, 
"  Doubt  not,    go   forward ;   if  thou 

doubt,  the  beasts 
Will  tear  thee  piecemt  al."    Then  with 

violence 

The  sword  was  dash'd  from  out  my 

hand,  and  fell. 
And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I  past ; 
But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I  saw 
No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the 

wall 

Or  shield  of  knight ;  only  the  rounded 
moon 

Thro'  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 
But  always  in  the  qitiet  house  1  heard, 
Clear  as  a  lark,  high  o'er  me  as  a  lark, 
A  sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost 
tower 

To  the  eastward  :  up  I  climb'd  a  thou- 
sand steps 

With  pain  :  as  in  dream  I  seem'd  to 
climb 

For  ever  :  at  the  last  I  reach'd  a  door, 
A  light  was  in  the  crannies,  and  1 
heard, 

Glory  and  joy  and  honor  to  our  Lord 
And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail." 
Then  in  my  madness  I  essay'd  the 
door : 

It  gave  ;  and  thro'  a  stormy  glare,  a 
heat 

As  from  a  seventimes-heated  furnace, 
I, 

Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I 
was, 

With  such  a  fierceness  that  I  swoon'd 
away — 

O,  yet  methought  I  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
All  pall'd  in    crimson  samite,  and 
around 

Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  wings 
and  eyes. 

And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my 
sin, 

And  then  my  swooning,  I  had  sworn  I 
saw 

That  which  I  sa  w  ;  but  what  I  saw  was 
veil'd 


408  THE  HOL 

And  cover' d ;  and  this  quest  was  not 
for  me.' 

"So   speaking,  and  here  ceasing, 
Lancelot  left 
The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain — 
nay. 

Brother,  I  need  not  tell  thee  foolish 
words, — 

A  reckless  and  irreverent  knight  was 
he, 

Now  bolden'd  by  the  silence  of  his 
King,— 

Well,  I  will  tell  thee  :  '  O  king,  my 
liege,'  he  said, 

*  Hath  Gawain  fail'd  in  any  quest  of 

thine  ? 

When  have  I  stinted  stroke  in  foughten 
held? 

But  as  for  thine,  my  good  friend,  Per- 
civale, 

Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven 

men  mad, 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than 

our  least. 

But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I 
swear, 

I  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat, 
And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday 
owl, 

The  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies. 
Henceforward.' 

"  '  Deafer,'  said  the  blameless  King, 

*  Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  holy  things 
Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle  vows, 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
But  if  indeed  there  came  a  sign  from 

heaven. 

Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot,  and  Perci- 
vale, 

For  these  have  seen  according  to  their 
sight. 

For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times, 
And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  the 
bard, 

When  God  made  music  thro'  them, 

could  but  speak 
His  music  by  the  framework  and  the 

chord  ; 

And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken  truth. 

"  '  Nay— but  thou  errest,  Lancelot : 
never  yet 

Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight 
and  man 


r  GRAIL. 

Twine  round  one  sin,  whatever  it  might 
be, 

With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  there 
grew. 

Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou 

spakest  of. 
Some   root  of  knighthood  and  pure 

nobleness  : 
Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear  its 
flower. 

"  '  And  spake  I  not  too  truly,  O  my 
knights? 

Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 
To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy 
Quest, 

That  niost  of  them  would  follow  wan- 
dering fires, 

Lost  in  the  quagmire  ? — lost  to  me  and 
gone, 

And  left  me  gazing  at  a  barren  board, 
And  a  lean  Order — scarce  return'd  a 
tithe — 

And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision 
came 

My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he 
saw ; 

Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  olf, 

And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right 

themselves, 
Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 
And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to 

face, 

And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in 
vain. 

However  they  may  crown  him  other- 
where. 

"  And  some  among  you  held,  that  if 
the  King 

Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  have 

sworn  the  vow  : 
Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  King  must 

guard 

That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the 
hind 

To  whom  a  space  of  land  is  given  to  ' 
plougli. 

Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allotted 
field. 

Before  his  work  be  done ;  but,  being 
done. 

Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the  day 
Come,  as  they  will ;  and  many  a, time 
they  come. 


PELLBAS  AI 

Until  this  eartli  lie  walks  on  seems 

not  eartli, 
This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is 

not  light, 

This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is 
not  air 

But  vision — yea,  his  very  hand  and 

foot- 
In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot 

die, 

^nd  knows  himself  no  vision  to  him- 
self. 

f^or  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that 
One 

Who  rose  again  :  ye  have  seen  what  ye 
have  seen.' 
*'So  spake  the  king  :  I  knew  not  all 
he  meant." 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

(CiNG  Arthur  made  new  knights  to 

fill  the  gap 
Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ;  and  as  he  sat 
/n  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly  sunder'd,  and  thro'  these 

a  youth, 

Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the 
fields 

Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along 
with  him. 

"Make  me  thy  knight,  because  I 
know.  Sir  King, 
All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I 
love," 

Such  was  his  cry ;  for  having  heard 
the  King 

Had  let  proclaim  a  tournament — the 
prize 

A  golden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword, 
Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady  won 
The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the 
sword : 

And  there  were  those  who  knew  him 

near  the  King 
And  promised  for  him :  and  Arthur 

made  him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight,  Sir  Pelleas  of 
the  isles — 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance, 
And  lord  of  many  a  barren  isle  was 
he- 


D  ETTARRE.  409 

Riding  at  noon,  a  day  or  twain  before., 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to 
find 

Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the 
sun 

Beat  like  a  strong  knight  on  his  helm, 

and  reel'd 
Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse  ;  but 

saw 

Near  him  a  mound  of  even-sloping 
side, 

Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches 
grew. 

And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under 
them. 

But  for  a  mile  all  round  was  open 
space. 

And  fern  and  heath  :  and  slowly  Pel 
leas  drew 

To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his 

good  horse 
To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down ;  and  as 

he  lay 

At  random  looking  over  the  brown 
earth 

Thro'  that  green-glooming  twilight  of 

the  grove, 
It  seem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern 

without 

Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds, 
So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking 
at  it. 

Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a 
cloud 

Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a 
bird 

Flying,  and  then  a  fawn  ;  and  his  eyes 
closed. 

And  since  he  loved  all  maidens,  but 
no  maid 

In  special,  half-awake  he  whisper'd, 

"Where? 
O  where?  I  love  thee,  tho'  I  know 

thee  not. 

For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guine- 
vere, 

And  I  will  make  thee  with  my  spear 
and  sword 

As  famous— O  my  queen,  my  Guine- 
vere, 

For  I  will  be  thine  Arthur  when  W9 
meet." 

Suddenly  waken'd  with  a  sound  of 
talk 


410 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE, 


And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood, 
And  glancing  thro'  the  hoary  boles,  he 
saw, 

Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might 

have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire, 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of 

bracken  stood : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly, 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and 

one  that, 
Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose, 
And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to 
the  light. 

There  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among 

them  said, 
**  In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star  ! 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we 

ride, 

Arm'd  as  ye  see,  to  tilt  against  the 
knights 

There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our 
way  : 

To  right?  to  left?  straightforward? 

back  again  ? 
Which?  tell  us  quickly." 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 
*'  Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful?" 
For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and 

her  bloom 
A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless 

heavens. 

And   round  her    limbs,  mature  in 

womanhood. 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small 

her  shape. 
And  but   for   those  large  eyes,  the 

haunts  of  scorn, 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle 

with. 

And  pass  and  care  no  more.  But 

while  he  gazed 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the 

As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul : 
For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the 
good, 

Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  de- 
fault 

Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend, 


All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul 
to  hers. 

Believing  her ;  and  when  she  spake  to 
him, 

Stammer'd,  and  could  not  make  her  a 
reply. 

For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he 
come. 

Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had 
known 

Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles, 
Bough    wives,    that    laugh'd  and 

scream'd  against  the  gulls. 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the 

sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  turn'd  the 
lady  round 
And  look'd  upon  her  people  ;  and  as 
when 

A  stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping 
tarn. 

The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge. 
Spread  the  slow  smile  thro'  all  her 
company. 

Three  knights  were  thereamong  ;  and 

they  too  smiled, 
Scorning  him ;  for  the  lady  was  Et- 

tarre. 

And  she  was  a  great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  "  O  wild  and  of  the 
woods, 

Knowest  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our 
speech  ? 

Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee  a 

fair  face, 
I^acking  a  tongue  ?  " 

"  O  damsel,"  answer'd  he, 
"I  woke  from  dreams;  and  coming 

out  of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  ami 

crave 

Pardon  :  but  will  ye  to  Caerleon  ?  1 
Go  likewise  :  shall  I  lead  you  to  th<» 
King?" 

**Lead  then."  she  said;  and  thro' 
the  woods  they  went. 
And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in 
his  eyes, 

His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste 
awe, 

His  broken  utterance  and  bashf ulness, 
Were  all  a  burthen  to  her,  and  in  her 
heart 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


411 


She  mutter'd,  ''I  have  lighted  on  a 
fool, 

Kaw,  yet  so  stale  ! "   But  since  her 

mind  was  bent 
On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her 

name 

And  title,  "Queen  of  Beauty,"  in  the 
lists 

Cried— and  beholding  him  so  strong, 

she  thought 
That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for 

me. 

And  win  the  circlet :  therefore  flatter'd 
him, 

Being  so  gracious,  that  he  wellnigh 
deem'd 

His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd  :  and  her 
knights 

And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious 

to  him, 
For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach'd 
Caerleon,  ore  they  past  to  lodging, 
she. 

Taking  his  hand,  "  O  the  strong  hand," 
she  said. 

See  !  look  at  mine  !  but  wilt  thou 
fight  for  me. 
And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 
That  I  may  love  thee  ?  " 

Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried  "  Ay  !  wilt  thou  if 
I  win  ?" 

Ay,  that  will  I,"  she  answer'd,  and 

she  laugh'd, 
And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung 

it  from  her ; 
Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three 

knights  of  hers, 
Till  all  her  ladies  laugh'd  along  with 

her. 

O  happy  world,"  thought  Pelleas, 
all,  meseems. 
Are  happy  ;  I  the  happiest  of  them 
all." 

Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in 

his  blood, 
And  green  wood  ways,  and  eyes  among 

the  leaves  ; 
Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted, 

swarc 

To  love  one  only.   And  as  he  came 
way, 


The  Mien  who  met  him  rounded  on 

their  heels 
And  wonder'd  after  him,  because  his 

face 

Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest 
of  old 

Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven  :  so  glad 
was  he 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets,  '■ 

and  strange  knights 
From  the  four  winds  came  in  :  and 

each  one  sat. 
Tho'  served  with  choice  from  air,  land, 

stream,  and  sea. 
Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with 

his  eyes 

His  neighbor's  make  and  might :  and 

Pelleas  look'd 
Noble    among    the   noble,   for  he 

dream'd 

His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew 
himself 

Loved  of  the  King  :  and  him  his  new- 
made  knight 
Worshipt,    whose    lightest  whisper 

moA'^ed  him  more 
Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the 

world. 

Then  blush'd  and  brake  the  morning 

of  the  jousts, 
And  this  was  call'd  ''The  Tournament 

of  Youth  : " 
For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight, 

withheld 

His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the 
lists. 

That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady's 
love. 

According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the   tourney.    And  Arthur 

had  the  jousts 
Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of 

Usk 

Holden :   the   gilded   parapets  were 
crown'd 

With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  fill'd 
with  eyes 

Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets 
blew. 

There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept  the 
field 

With  honor :  so  by  that  strong  hand 
of  his 


412 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


The  sword  and  golden  circlet  were 
achieved. 
Then  rang  the  shout  his  ladj^  loved  : 
the  heat 

Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face  :  her 
eye 

Sparkled  ;  she  caught  the  circlet  from 
his  lance, 

And  there  before  the  people  crown'd 
herself. 

So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious 
to  him. 

Then  at  Caerleon  for  a  space — her 
look 

Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her 
knight — 

Linger'd  Ettarre  :  and  seeing  Pelleas 
droop, 

Said  Guinevere,  "  We  marvel  at  thee 
much, 

0  damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 
To  him  who  won  thee  glory  ! "  And 

she  said, 

''Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in 

your  bower, 
My  Queen,  he  had  not  won."  Wliereat 

the  Queen, 
As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant, 
Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn'd  and 

went  her  way. 
But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and 

herself, 

And  those  three  knights  all  set  their 

faces  home, 
Sir  Pelleas  follow'd.   She  that  saw 

him  cried, 
"  Damsels— and  yet  I  should  be  shamed 

to  say  it— 

1  cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.    Keep  him 

back 

Among  yourselves.  Would  rather  that 
we  had 

Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the 

workily  wav. 
Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 
And  jest  with  :  take  him  to  you,  keep 

him  off, 

And  pamper  liim  with  papmeat,  if  ye 
will, 

Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep. 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell 

their  boys. 
Nay  should  ye  try  him  with  a  merry 

one 


To  find  his  mettle,  good  :  and  if  he  fly 
us, 

Small  matter  !  let   him."    This  her 

damsels  heard, 
And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel 

hand. 

They,  closing  round  him  thro'  the 

journey  home. 
Acted  her  best,  and  always  from  her 

side 

Restrain 'd  him  with  all  manner  of 
device, 

So  that  he  could  not  come  to  speech 
with  her. 

And  when  she  gain'd  her  castle,  up- 

s prang  the  bridge^ 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro'  the 

groove, 

And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

''These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,"  Pel- 
leas thought, 
"To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of 
our  faith. 

Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost. 

For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  1." 

So  made  his  moan  ;  and,  darkness  fall- 
ing, sought 

A  priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but 
rose 

With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist 
or  dry, 

Full-arm'd  upon  his  charger  all  day 
long 

Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open'd  to 
him. 

And  this  persistence  turn'd  her  scorn 
to  wrath. 

Then  calling  lier  three  knights,  she 

cliarged  tliem,  "  Out ! 
And  drive  him  from  the  walls.'*  And 

oul  tliey  came, 
But  Pelleas  overtlirew  them  as  they 

dash'd 

Against  liim  one  by  one  ;  and  these 
re turn'd. 

But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath 
the  wall. 

Thereon  her  wrath  became  a  hate  ; 
and  once, 

A  week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the 
walls 

With  her  three  knights,  she  })ointed 
downward,  "  Look, 


FELLEAS  A. 

He  haunts  me— I  cannot  breathe — be- 

seiges  me  ; 
Down  !  strike  him  !  put  my  hate  into 

your  strokes, 
And  drive  him  from  my  walls."  And 

down  they  went, 
And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  by 

one ; 

And  from  the  tower  above  him  cried 

Ettarre, 
"  Bind  him  and  bring  him  in." 

He  heard  her  voice  ; 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had 
overthrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 
threw 

Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they 
brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre, 
the  sight 

Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one 
glance 

More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in 
his  bonds. 

Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  "Be- 
hold me,  Lady, 

A  prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 

And  if  thou  keep  me  in  thy  donjon 
here, 

Content  am  I  so  that  I  see  thy  face 
But  once  a  day  :  for  I  have  sworn  my 
vows, 

And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and 
I  know 

That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my 
faith. 

And  that  thyself  when  thou  hast  seen 

me  strain'd 
And  sifted  to  the  utmost,   wilt  at 

length 

Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for 
thy  knight." 

Then  she  began  to  rail ;  o  bitterly. 
With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken 
mute  ; 

But  when  she  mock'd  his  vows  and  the 

great  King, 
Lighted  on  words  :  "  For  pity  of  thine 

own  self. 

Peace,  Lady,  peace  :  is  he  not  thine 
and  mine  ?" 
Thou  fool,"  she  said,    I  never  heard 
his  voice 


ID  ETTARRE.  413 

But  long'd  to  break  away.  Unbind 
him  now. 

And  thrust  him  out  of  doors  ;  for  save 
he  be 

Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his 
bones, 

He  will  return  no  more."    And  those, 

her  three, 
Laugh'd,  and  unbound,  and  thrust 

him  from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She  call'd  them,  saying,    'There  he 

watches  yet. 
There  like  a  dog  before  his  master's 

door  ! 

Kick'd,  he  returns  :  do  ye  not  hate 
him,  ye  ? 

Ye  know  yourselves  :  how  can  ye  bide 
at  peace, 

Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence? 
Are  ye  1  ut  ci  eatures  of  the  board  and 
bed, 

No  men  to  strike  ?  Fall  on  him  all  at 
once. 

And  if  ye  slay  him  I  reck  not-;  if  ye 
fail, 

Give  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be 
bound, 

Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him 
in  : 

It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his 
bonds." 

She  spake  ;  and  at  her  will  they 
couch'd  their  spears, 
Three  against  one  :  and  Gawain  pass- 
ing by. 

Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 
Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of 

those  towers 
A  villany,  three  to  one  :  and  thro'  his 

heart 

The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flash'd,  and  he  call'd,    I  strike  upon 

thy  side  — 
The  caitiffs  !  "    "  Nay,"  said  Pelleas, 

"  but  forbear ; 
He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his  lady's 

will." 

So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  villany 
done, 

Forebore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 
Trembled  and  quiver 'd,  as  the  dog, 
withheld 


414 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


A  moment  from  the  vermin  tliat  he 

sees 

Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs 
and  kills. 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to 
three  ; 

And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and 

brought  him  in. 
Then  first  hex  anger,  leaving  Pelleas, 

bum'd 

Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil 
name 

Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beat- 
en hound : 

"  Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit 
to  touch. 

Far  less  to  Ibind,  your  viotor,  and 

thrust  him  out. 
And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his 

bonds. 

And  if  he  comes  again"— there  she 
brake  short ; 

And  Pelleas  answer'd,  "  Lady,  for  in- 
deed 

I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beauti- 
ful, 

I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty 
marr'd 

Thro'  evil  spite  :  and  if  ye  love  me  not, 
I  cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  for- 
sworn : 

1  had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my  love. 
Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you— fai-e- 
well ; 

And  tho'  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my 
love, 

Vex  not  yourself  :  ye  will  not  see  me 
more," 

While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed  upon 
the  man 

Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds,  and 
thought, 

**  Why  have  I  push'd  him  from  me  ? 

this  man  loves, 
K  love  there  be  :  yet  him  I  loved  not. 

Why? 

I  deem'd  him  fool  ?  yea,  so  ?  or  that  in 
him 

A  something— was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self ?  — 

Seem'd  my  reproach?  He  is  not  of  my 
kind. 

He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me 
well. 


Nay,  let  him  go — and  quickly."  And 

her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden 

out  of  door. 
Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed. 

him  from  his  bonds, 
And  flung  them  o'er  the  walls  ;  and 

afterward, 
Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a  lazar's 

rag, 

<*  Faith  of  my  body,"  he  said,  "  and  art 
thou  not  — 

Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Ar- 
thur made 

Knight  of  his  table ;  yea  and  he  that 
won 

The  circlet?  wherefore  hast  thou  so 
defamed 

Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the 
rest. 

As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 
will?" 

And  Pelleas  answer'd,     O,  their 

wills  are  hers 
For  whom  I  won  the  circlet;  and 

mine,  hers. 
Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 
Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mock^ 

ery  now. 

Other  than  when  I  found  her  in  the 

woods ; 

And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in 

spite, 

And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring 
me  in. 

Let  me  be  bounden,  I  shall  see  hex 
face  ; 

Else  must  1  die  thro'  mine  unhappi- 
ness." 

And  Gawain  answer'd  kindly  tho'  in 

scorn, 

**  Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she  will, 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will  : 
But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  fighting  hands  of  mine  —  Christ 

kill  me  then 
But  I  will  slice  him  handlesB  by  the 

wrist. 

And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for 
him. 

Howl  as  he  may.   But  hold  me  for 

your  friend  : 
Come,  ye  know  nothing  :  here  I  pledgo 

my,  troth. 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE, 


Yea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 
I  will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy 
work, 

And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to  thine 
hand. 

Lend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  I 
will  say 

That  I  have  slain  thee.    She  will  let 
me  in 

To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and 
fall  ; 

Then,  when  I  come  within  her  coun- 
sels, then 

From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant  thy 
praise 

As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover, 
more 

Than  any  have  sung  the  living,  tillshe 
long 

To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again, 
Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds 

and  warm, 
Dearer  than  freedom.  Wherefore  now 

thy  horse 

And  armor  :  let  me  go  :  be  comforted: 
Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy, 
and  hope 

The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee 
news  of  gold." 

The  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all  his 
arms, 

Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and 
took 

Gawain's,  and  said,     Betray  me  not, 

.  but  help  — 
Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light- 
of-love  ?" 

"  Ay,"  said  Gawain,  "  for  women  be 
so  light." 

Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle 
walls. 

And  raised  a  bugle  hanging  from  his 
neck, 

And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 
That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the 
wall 

Ra  ig  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunt- 
ing-tide. 

Up  ran  a  score  of  damsels  to  the 
tower  ; 

"  Avaunt,"  they  cried,  "  our  lady  loves 

thee  not." 
But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  visor  said. 


415 
Arthur's 


Gawain   am  I,  Gawain  of 
court. 

And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom 
ye  hate  : 

Behold  his  horse  and  armor.  Open 
gate. 

And  I  will  make  you  merry." 

And  down  they  ran, 
Her  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady, 
'*Lo  ! 

Pelleas  is  dead  —  he  told  us  —  he  that 
hath 

His  horse  and  armor  :  will  ye  let  him 
in? 

He  slew  him  !  Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 
court. 

Sir  Gawain— there  he  waits  below  the 
wall. 

Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say 
him  nay." 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on 
thro'  open  door 
Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  cour- 
teously. 

''Dead,  is  it  so?"  she  ask'd.  "Ay,  ay," 
said  he, 

"  And  oft  in  dying  cried  upon  your 
name." 

Pity  on  him,"  she  answer'd,  "  a  good 
knight, 

But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at 
peace." 

"  Ay,"  thought  Gawain,  *'  and  ye  be 

fair  enow  : 
But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given  my 

troth, 

That  whom  ye  loathe  him  will  I  make 
you  love." 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about 

the  land, 
Lost  in  a  doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought 

a  moon 

With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods 

and  ways. 
The  night  was  hot :  he  could  not 

rest,  but  rode 
Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound 

his  horse 

Hard  by  the  gates.    Wide  open  were^ 
the  gates. 

And  no  watch  kept ;  and  in  thro'  theea 
he  past, 


416 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE, 


And  heard  "but  Ms  own  steps,  and  his 

own  heart 
Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his 

own  self, 

And  his  own  shadow.    Then  he  crost 

the  court, 
And  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning ;  and  up  a  slope  of  garden, 

all 

Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  wild  ones 
mixt 

And  overgrowmg  them,  went  on,  and 
found, 

Here  too,  all  hush'd  below  the  mellow 
moon. 

Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came  lightening  downward,  and  so 

spilt  itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 

Then  was  he  ware  that  white  pavi- 
lions rose. 
Three  from  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt : 
in  one, 

Red  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdane 
knights 

Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires 

across  their  feet : 
In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 
Froz'n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her  dam- 
sels lay  : 

And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the 
jousts 

Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  and 
Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a  hand  that  pushes  thro' 
tlie  leaf 

To  find  a  nest  and  feels  a  snake,  he 
drew  : 

Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what  he 
fears 

To  cope  with,  or  a  traitor  proven,  or 
hound 

Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  sljame 
Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'  the  court 
again, 

Fingering  at  his  sword-handle  until  he 
stood 

There  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more, 

and  thought, 
*'I  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where 

they  lie." 

And  so  went  back  and  seeing  them 
yet  in  sleep 


Said,    Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  ^idiy 

sleep. 

Your  sleep  is  death,"  and  drew  the 

sword,  and  thought, 
"  What !  slay  a  sleeping  knight  ?  the 

King  hath  bound 
And  sworn  me  to  this  brotherhood  ;  " 

again, 

"  Alas  that  ever  a  knight  should  be  so 
false." 

Then  turn'd  ;  and  so  return' d,  and 

groaning  laid 
The  naked  sword  athwart  their  naked 

throats, 

There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping  ;  and 
she  lay. 

The  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her 
brows, 

And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across 
her  throat. 
And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on 
his  horse 

Stared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than 

themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  into 

the  moon. 
Then  crush'd  the   saddle   with  his 

thighs,  and  clench'd 
His  hands,  and  madden'd  with  himself 

and  moan'd : 

*'  Would  they  have  risen  against  me 

in  their  blood 
At  the  last  day?  I  might  have  an- 

swer'd  them 
Even  before  high  God.    O  towers  so 

strong, 

Huge,  solid,  would  that  even  while  I 
gaze 

The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to 

your  base 
Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your 

harlot  roofs 
Bellowing,  and  charr'd  you  thro'  and 

thro'  within. 
Black  as  the  harlot's  heart— hollow  as 

a  skull  ! 

Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro'  your 

eyelet-holes, 
And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round 

and  round 
In  dung  and  nettles!  hiss,  snake  — I 

saw  him  there  — 
Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell. 

Who  yells 


PELLEAS  AND  tlTTARRE. 


Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night, 

I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  shecall'dher 
fool?  ^„  w. 

Fool,  beast  — he,  she,  or  I?  myselt 
most  fool ;  ^• 

Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit— dis- 
graced, 

Dishonor'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love- 
Love? -we  be  all  alike:   only  the 

Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.  O  noble 
vows !  ^  - 

0  great  and  sane  and  simple  race  ot 

brutes 

That  own  no  lust  because  they  have  no 
law !  ,      ,  T  4^ 

For  why  should  1  have  loved  her  to 
my  shame? 

1  loathe  her,  as  I  loved  her  to  my 

shame.  ,  .  , 

I  never  loved  her,  I  but  lusted  for  her 

—Away—  " 
He  dash'd  the  rowel  into  his  horse. 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish'd  thro 

the  night. 
Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on 

her  throat. 
Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn  d 

herself 

To  Gawain  :  Liar,  for  thou  hast  not 
slain  . 

This  Pelleas  •  here  he  stood  and  might 
have  slain 

Me  and  thyself."  And  he  that  tells 
the  tale 

Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn'd 
To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on 
earth, 

And  only  lover  ;  and  thro'  her  love  her 
lifl 

Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  m 
vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way.  for  half  the 
night, 

And  oyer  hard  and  soft,  striking  the 
sod  _ 

IProm  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off 
the  hard, 

Kode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening 
sun,  .  • 

Beside  that  tower  where  Percivale  was 
cowl'd, 


417 

Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of  the 
dawn.  .       .  . 

For  so  the  words  were  flash'd  into  ms 
heart 

He  knew  not  whence  or  wherefore : 

<' O  sweet  star. 
Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the 
dawn."  X  V.  J. 

And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but 

felt  his  eyes  . 
Harder  and  drier  than  a  fountain  bed 
In  summer  :  thither  came  the  village 

And  Imger'd  talking,  and  ,they  come 
no  more 

Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  till  d  it 

from  the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 
Of  seasons  :  hard  his  eyes ;  harder  his 
heart 

Seem'd ;  but  so  weary  were  his  hmbs, 
that  he.  ,  -r  * 

Gasping,    Of  Arthur's  hall  am  I,  but 

Here  let  me  rest  and  die,"  cast  himself 
down,  .        X  1  . 

And  gulph'd  his  grief  s  m  inmost  sleep ; 

so  lay,  ,  X 

Till  shaken  by  a  dream,  that  Gawain 

fired  , 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning 

Eeel'd  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 
and  fell. 


He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some 
one  nigh, 

Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  mm, 
crying  ^  . 

False  !  and  I  held  thee  pure  as  Guin- 
evere." 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and 
replied,  . 

-  Am  I  but  false  as  Guinevere  is  pure? 

Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams  ?  or 
being  one 

Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not 

That  Lancelot"  — there  he  check'd 
himself  and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  9£ 

with  one 

Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  Vom 
sword 


418  PELLEAS 

That  made  it  plunges  thro'  the  wound 
again, 

And  pricks  it  deeper  :  and  he  shrank 
and  wail'd, 
the  Queen  false?  "and  Percivale 
was  mute. 
Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held 
their  vows  ?  " 
And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a  word, 
the  king  true?"  "The  King!" 
said  Percivale. 
Why  then  let  men  couple  at  once  with 
wolves. 
What !  art  thou  mad  ?  " 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up, 
Ran  thro*  the  doors  and  vaulted  on  his 
horse 

And  fled  :  small  pity  upon  his  horse 
had  he, 

Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he  met 
A  cripple,  one  that  held  a  hand  for 
alms— 

Hunch'd  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old 

dwarf-elm 
That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast, 

the  boy, 

Paused  not  but  overrode  him,  shouting 

"  False, 

And  false  with  Gawain  !  "  and  00  left 

him  bruised 
And  batter'd,  and  fled  on,  and  hill  and 

wood 

Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the 
gloom, 

That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the 
world, 

Darken' d  the  common  path:  he  twitch*d 
the  reins, 

And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew 
it,  swerve 

Now  ofl"  it  and  now  on;  but  when  he  saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Merlin 
built, 

Blackening    against  the  dead-green 

stripes  of  even, 
*<  Black  nest  of  rats,"  he  groan'd,  "  ye 

build  too  high." 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city 
gates 

Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily, 
Warm  with  a  gracious  parting  from  the 
Queen, 

Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a  star 


TD  ETTARRE. 

And  marvelling  what  it  was  ;  on  whoni 

the  boy, 

Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow-grass 
Borne,  clash'd  :  and  Lancelot,  saying, 

What  name  hast  thou 
That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so 
hard?" 

**I  have  no  name,"  he  shouted,  "a 

scourge  am  1, 
To  lash  the   treasons  of  the  Table 
Round." 

"  Yea,  but  thy  name ? '*  "I  have  many 

names,"  he  cried  : 
•*  I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate  and 

evil  fame. 
And  like  a  poisonous  wind  1  pass  to 
blast 

And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and 

the  Queen." 
"  First  over  me,"  said  Lancelot,  "  shalt 

thou  pass." 
"Fight  therefore,"  yell'd  the  other^ 

and  either  knight 
Drew  back  a  space,  and  when  they 

closed,  at  once 
The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  floundering 
flung 

His  rider,  who  called  out  from  the  dark 
fleld, 

"  Thou  art  false  as  Hell :  slay  me  :  J 

have  no  sword." 
1  hen  Lancelot.  "  Yea,  between  thy  lipa 

— and  sharp  ; 
But  here  will  1  disedge  it  by  thy  death.** 
"Slay  then,"  he  shriek'd,  "  liiy  will  iu 

to  be  slain." 
And  Lancelot,  with  his  heel  upon  the 
fall'n, 

Rolling  his  eyes,  a  moment  stood,  then 
spak  ";  : 

**  Rise,  weakling  ;  I  am  Lancelot ;  say 
thy  say." 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war- 
horse  back 
To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief 
while 

Caught  bis  unbroken  limbs  from  the 

dark  field. 
And  folio w'd  to  the  city.   It  chanced 
that  both 

Brake  into  hall  together.worn  and  pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was 

Guinevere. 
Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lancelot 


THE  LAST  TOUBXAMEXT. 


419 


So  soon  return' d,  and  then  on  Pelleas, 
him 

"Who  had  not  greeted  her,  but  cast  him- 
self 

Down   oo   a  bench,  hard-breathmg. 

"Have  ye  fought?" 
She  ask'd   of    Lancelot.    "Ay,  my 

Queen,"  he  said. 
"And  thou  hast  overthrown  him? 

Ay,  my  Queen." 
Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  *'  O  young 

knight, 

Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood  in 

thee  fail  d 
So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfrowardly, 
A  fall  from  him?"  Tien,  for  he  an- 

swer'd  not, 
•<  Or  hast  thou  other  griefs  ?  If  I,  the 

Queen, 

May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and 

let  me  know." 
But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 
She  quail' d  ;  and  he,  hissing  "  I  have 

no  sword," 
Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark. 

The  Queen 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on  her ; 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day  to 

be: 

And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a  grove  all  song 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of 
prey, 

Then  a  long  silence  came  upon  the  hall, 
And  Modred  thought,  "The  time  is 
hard  at  hand." 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 

Dagoket,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  In 

his  moods 

Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur's  Ta- 
ble Round, 

At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellowing 
woods. 

Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 
Hall. 

And  toward  him  from  the  Hall,  with 

harp  in  hand, 
And  from  the  crown  thereof  a  carca- 

net 

Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday. 
Came  Tristram,  saying,  "  Why  skip  ye 
go.  Sir  Fool  ?  " 


For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding 

once 

Far  down  beneath  a  winding  wall  of 
rock 

Heard  a  child  wail.   A  stump  of  oak 

half-dead, 
From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of 

carven  snakes 
Clutch' d  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro 

mid-air 

Bearing  an  eagle's  nest :  and  thro  the 
tree 

Rush'd  ever  a  rainy  wind,  and  thro  th0 
wind 

Pierced  ever  a  child's  cry  :  and  crag 
and  tree 

Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  peril- 
ous nest. 

This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  hei 
necK, 

And  all  unscarr'd  from  beak  or  talon, 
brought 

A  maiden  babe;  which  Arthur  pity- 
ing took. 

Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear ;  the 
Queen  .      .    ^  , 

But  coldly  acquiescing,  m  her  white 
arms  ,  , 

Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly. 

And  named  it  Nestling  ;  so  forgot  her- 
self .  -  , 

A  moment,  and  her  cares  ;  till  thai 
young  life  . 

Being  smitten  in  mid-heaven  with 
mortal  cold 

Past  from  her  ;  and  in  time  the  carcar 
net 

Vext  her  with  plaintive  memories  ol 
the  child: 

So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said, 

*  Take  thou  the  jew  els  of  this  dead 
innocence, 

And  make  them,  an  thou  wilt,  a  tour- 
ney prize." 

To  whom    the   King,    "  Peace  to 

thine  eagle-borne 
Bead  nestling,  and  this  honor  aftei 

death,  ^ 
Following  thy  will !  but,  O  my  Queen, 

I  muse 

Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  oi 
zone,  ,  - 

Those  diamonds  that  I  rescued  from 
the  tarn. 


420 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


And  Lancelot  won,  methought,f  or  thee 
to  wear." 

*»  Would  rather  ye  had  let  them 
fall,"  she  cried, 
**  Plunge  and  be  lost  —  ill-fated  as  they 
were, 

A  bitterness  to  me  !  —  ye  look  amazed, 
Kot  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon  as 
given  — 

Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I  was  lean- 
ing out 

Above  the  river  —  that  unhappy  child 
Past  in  her  barge  :  but  rosier  luck  will 
go 

"With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that 
they  came 

Kot  froni  the  skeleton  of  a  brother- 
slayer, 

But  the  sweet  body  of  a  maiden  babe. 
Perchance  —  who  knows  ?  —  the  purest 

of  thy  knights 
May  win  them  for  the  purest  of  my 

maids." 

She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a  great 
jousts 

With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the 

ways 

From  Camelot  in  among  the  faded 
tields 

To  furthest  towers ;  and  everywhere 

the  knights 
Arm'd  for  a  day  of  glory  before  the 

King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud 
morn 

Into  the  hall  stagger'd,  his  visage 
ribb'd 

From  ear  to  ear  with  dogwhip-weals, 
his  nose 

Bridge-broken,  on3  eye  out,  and  one 
hand  off. 

And  one  with  shatter'd  fingers  dang- 
ling lame, 

A.  churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the 
King, 

"My  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died, 
what  evil  beast 
Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy 

face  ?  or  fiend  ? 
Man  was  it  who  marr'd  Heaven's  im- 
age in  thee  thus?  " 
Then,  sputtering  thro'  the  hedge  of 
splinter'd  teeth, 


Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with 

blunt  stump 
Pitch-blacken 'd  sawing  the  air,  said  the 

maim'd  churl. 

He  took  them  and  he  drave  them 
to  his  tower  — 
Some  hold  he  was  a  table-knight  of 
thine  — 

A   hundred   goodly  ones  —  the  Red 

Knight  he  — 
Lord,  I  was  tending  swine,  and  the 

Bed  Knight 
Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to 

his  tower ; 
And  when  I  called  upon  thy  name  as 

one 

That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by 
churl, 

Maim'd  me  and  maul'd,  and  would 

outright  have  slain. 
Save  that  he  sware  me  to  a  message, 

saying  — 

•  Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars, 

that  I 

Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in  the 
North, 

And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have 
sworn 

My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter  to 

it  —  and  say 
My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his 

court, 

But  mine  are  worthier,  seeing  they 
profess 

To  be  none  other  than  themselves  — 
and  say 

My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his 
own, 

But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  pro« 
fess 

To  be  none  other  ;  and  say  his  hour  is 
come, 

The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long 
lance 

Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a  straw.'  " 

Then  Arthur  turn'd  to  Kay  the  sen- 
eschal. 

Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 
curiously 

Like  a  king's  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 
whole. 

The  heathen  —  but  that  ever-climbing 
wave. 


THE  LAST  T 

Hurl'd  back  again  so  often  in  empty 
foam, 

Hath  lain  tor  years  at  rest  — and  rene- 
gades. 

Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confusion, 
whom 

The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of 

otherwhere, — 
Friends,  thro'  your  manhood  and  your 

fealty, —  now 
Make  their  last  head  like  Satan  in  the 

North. 

My  younger  knights,  new-made,  in 

whom  your  Sower 
Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden  deeds, 
Move  with  me  toward  their  quelling, 

which  achieved, 
The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from  shore 

to  shore. 

But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my 
place 

Enchair'd    to-morrow,   arbitrate  the 
field; 

For  wherefore  shouldst  thou  care  to 

mingle  with  it, 
Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own 

again  ? 

Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent:  is  it 
well?" 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  It 
is  well : 

Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and  leave 
The  leading  of  his  younger  knights  to 
me. 

Else,  for  the  King  has  will'd  it,  it  is 
well." 

Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  fol- 

low'dhim. 
And  while  they  stood  without  the 

doors,  the  King 
Tum'd  to  him  saying,  "  Is  it  then  so 

well? 

Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I  seem  as 
he 

Of  whom  was  written, '  a  sound  is  in  his 
ears ' — 

The  foot  that  loiters  bidden  go,  —  the 
glance 

That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  com- 
mand,— 

A  manner  somewhat  f all'n  from  rever- 
ence— 

Or  have  I  dream'd  the  bearing  of  our 
knights 


^URNAMENT.  42: 

Tells  of  a  manhood  ever  less  and  low- 
er? 

Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my  realm, 
uprear'd. 

By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows, 
From  flat  confusion  and  brute  vio- 
lences, 

Reel  back  into  the  beast,  and  be  no 
more?" 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger 
knights, 

Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply 
turn'd 

North  by  the  gate-   In  her  high  bower 

the  Queen, 
Working  a  tapestry,  lifted  up  her  head, 
Watch'd  her  Lord  pass,  and  knew  not 

that  she  sigh'd. 
Then    ran   across  her   memory  the 

strange  rhyme 
Of  bygone  Merlin,    Where  is  he  who 

knows  ? 

From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 
he  goes." 

But  when  the  morning  of  a  tourna- 
ment. 

By  these  in  earnest,  those  in  mockery, 
call'd 

The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Inno- 
cence, 

Brake  with  a  wet  wind  blowing,  Lance- 
lot, 

Round  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like 

birds  of  prey, 
The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shriek'd, 

arose. 

And  down  a  streetway  hung  with  folds 
of  pure 

White  samite,  and  by  fountains  run- 
ning wine. 

Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups 
of  gold. 

Moved  to  the  lists,  and  there,  with 

slow  sad  steps 
Ascending,  fill'd  his  double-dragon'd 

chair. 

He  glanced  and  saw  the  stately  galu 
leries, 

Dame,  damsel,  each  thro'  worship  ot 

their  Queen 
White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainlessf 

child. 

And  some  with  scatter'd  jewels,  like  a 
bank 


422 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMEi^T. 


Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks 
of  tire. 

He  lookt  but  once,  and  veil'd  his  eyes 
again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in  a 
dream 

To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low 
roll 

Of  Autumn  thunder,  and  the  jousts 
began  : 

And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellow- 
ing leaf 

And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower  and 

shorn  plume 
"Went  down  it.    Sighing  weariedly,  as 

one 

Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a  faded  fire. 
When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past 
away. 

Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o'er 
the  lists. 

He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the  tourna- 
meiit 

Broken,  but  spake  not ;  once,  a  knight 

cast  down 
Before  his  throne  of  arbitration  cursed 
The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the 

King  ; 

And  once  the  laces  of  a  helmet  crack'd, 
And  show'd  him,  like  a  vermin  in  its 
hole, 

Modred,  a  narrow  face  :  anon  he  heard 
The  voice  that  billow'd  round  the  bar- 
riers roar 

An  ocean -sounding  welcome  to  one 
kniglit, 

But  newly-enter'd,  taller  thaii  the  rest, 
And    armor'd    all    in  forest  green, 
whereon 

There  tript  a  hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 
And  wearing  but  a  holly-spray  for  crest, 
With  ever-scattering  "^berries,  and  on 
shield 

A  spear,  a  liarp,  a  bugle— Tristram- 
late 

From  overseas  in  Brittany  returnM, 
And  marriage  with  a  princess  of  that 
realm. 

Isolt  the  White— Sir  Tristram  of  the 
Woods— 

Whom  I.ancelot  knew,  had  held  some- 
time with  pain 

^is  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn'd 
to  shake 


The  burthen  off  his  heart  in  one  full 
shock 

With  Tristram  ev'n  to  death :  his 

strong  hands  gript 
And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and 

left, 

Until  he  groan'd  for  wrath — so  many 
of  those. 

That  ware  their  ladies'  colors  on  the 
casque. 

Drew  from  before  ^Sir  Tristram  to  the 
bounds. 

And  there  with  gibes  and  flickering 

mockeries 
Stood,   while  he  mutter'd,  ''Craven 

crests  !   O  shame  ! 
What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they 

sware  to  love  ? 
The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 

more." 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot  gave, 
the  gems. 

Not  speaking  other  word  than  '*  Has 

thou  won  ? 
Art  thou  the  purest,  brother  ?  See,  the 

liand 

Wherewith  thou  takest  this  is  red  ! " 
to  whom 

Tristram,  half  plagued  by  Lancelot's 

languorous  mood, 
Made  answer,  "Ay,  but  wherefore  toss 

me  this 

Like  a  dry  bone  cast  to  some  hungry 
hound  ? 

Let    be    thy  fair   Queen's  fantasy. 

Strength  of  heart 
And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use  and 

skill, 

Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our 
King. 

My  hand— belike  the  lance  hath  dript 
upon  it — 

No  blood  of  mine,  I  trow  ;  but  O  chief 
knight, 

Right  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battle- 
field, 

Great  brother,  thou  nor  I  have  made 

the  world ; 
Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I  in 

mine." 

And   I'listram  round  the  gallery 
made  his  liorse 
(.'aracole  ;    then  bow'd  his  homage, 
bluntly  saying, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


423 


"  rail  damsels,  each  to  him  who  wor- 
ships each 

Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love,  be- 
hold 

This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not 
here." 

Then  most  of  these  were  mute,  some 

anger'd,  one 
Murmuring  "  All  courtesy  is  dead," 

and  one, 

"  The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 
more. " 

Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt 
and  mantle  clung, 
And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan 
day 

Went   glooming   down  in  wet  and 

weariness : 
But  under  her  black  brows  a  swarthy 

dame 

Laught  shrilly,  crying  "  Praise  the  pa- 
tient saints. 

Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 
past, 

Tho'  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt. 
So  be  it. 

The  snowdrop  only,  flow'ring  thro'  the 
year, 

Would  make  the  world  as  blank  as 
wintertide. 

Come— let  us  comfort  their  sad  eyes, 
our  Queen's 

And  Lancelot's,  at  this  night's  solem- 
nity 

With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the 
field." 

So  dame  and  damsel  glitter'd  at  the 
feast 

Variously  gay  :  for  he  that  tells  the 
tale 

Liken'd  them,  saying     as  when  an 

hour  of  cold 
Falls  on  the  mountain  in  midsummer 

snows, 

And  all  the  purple  slopes  «f  mountain 
flowers 

Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour 
returns 

With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 
again ; " 

So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple 
white. 

And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live 


Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcvip,  pop- 
py, glanced 

About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  bo 
loud 

Beyond  all  use,  that,  half-amazed,  the 
Queen, 

And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  law- 

less  jousts, 
Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to 

her  bower 
Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was 

lord. 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow 
morn, 

High  over  all  the  yellowing  Autumn- 
tide, 

Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 
hall. 

Then  Tristram  saying,  "  Why  skip  ye 

so.  Sir  Fool?" 
Wlieel'd  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet 

replied, 

"Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company  ; 
Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much  wit 
Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I 
skip 

To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of 
all." 

*'Ay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "but.  'tis 

eating  dry 
To  dance  without  a  catch,  a  roundelay 
To  dance  to."    Then  he  t wangled  on 

his  harp, 

And  while  he  twangled  little  Dagonet 

stood 

Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay'd  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a 
brook ; 

But  when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt 
again  ; 

Then  being  ask'd,  "  Why  skipt  ye  not, 

Sir  fool?" 
Made  answer,  "I  had  liefer  twenty 

years 

Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  ye  can  make." 
Then  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip 
to  come, 

"  Good  now,  what  music  have  I  broken, 
fool?" 

And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  "Arthur, 

the  king's ; 
For  when  thou  playest  that  air  with 

Queen  Isolt, 


424 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


Thou  makest  broken  music  with  thy 
bride, 

Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brit- 
tany— 

And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur's  music 
too." 

"Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy 
brains, 

Sir  Fool,"  said  Tristram,  "I  would 

break  thy  head. 
Fool,  I  came  late,  the  heathen  wars 

were  o'er, 
The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by 

the  shell — 
I  am  but  a  fool  to  reason  with  a  fool. 
Come,  thou  art  crabb'd  and  sour  :  but 

lean  me  down, 
SirDagonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses'  ears, 
And  hearken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

"  '  Free  love— free  field — we  love  but 
while  we  may  : 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is 
no  more  : 

The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past 
away  ; 

New  leaf,  new  life— the  days  of  frost 
are  o'er : 

New  life,  new  love  to  suit  the  newer 
day  : 

New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 
before  : 

Free  love — free   field — we   love  but 
while  we  may.' 

"  Ye  might  have  moved  slow-meas- 
ure to  my  tune, 
Not  stood  stockstill.    I  made  it  in  the 
woods. 

And  found  it  ring  as  trie  as  tested 
gold." 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised  in 
his  hand, 

Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain 
yesterday 

Made  to  run  wine  ?— but  this  had  run 
itself 

All  out  like  a  long  life  to  a  sour  end— 
And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  golden 
cups 

To  hand  the  wine  to  whomsoever 
came — 

The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as 

Innocence, 
In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe, 


Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence 

the  Queen 
Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the 

King 

Gave  for  a  prize — and  one  of  those 

white  slips 
Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty 

one, 

'  Drink,  drink.  Sir  Fool,'  and  there- 
upon 1  drank. 

Spat— pish— the  cup  was  gold,  the 
draught  was  mud." 

And  Tristram,  "Was  it  muddier 
than  thy  gibes  ? 
Is  all  the  laughter  gone  dead  out  of 
thee  ?— 

Not  marking  how  the  knighthood  mock 

thee,  fool — 
*  Fear  God  ;  honor  the  king — his  one 

true  knight- 
Sole  follower  of  the  vows' — for  here 

be  they 

Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before 
I  came, 

Smuttier  than  blasted  grain  :  but  when 
the  King 

Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so  shot 
up 

It  frighted  all  free  fool  from  out  thy 
heart ; 

Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and 

less  than  swine, 
A  naked  aught — yet  swine  I  hold  thee 

still, 

For  I  have  flung  thee  pearls,  and  find 
thee  swine." 
And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 
feet, 

"  Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies 

round  my  neck 
In  lieu  of  hers,  I  '11  hold  thou  hast 

some  toucn 
Of  music,  since  I  care  not  for  thy 

pearls. 

Swine  ?  I  liave  wallow'd,  I  have  wash'd 

—the  world 
Is  flesli  and  shadow— I  have  had  my 

day. 

The  dirty  nurse,  Experience,  in  her 
kind 

Hath  foul'd  me— an  I  wallow'd,  then  I 
wash'd — 

I  have  had  my  day  and  my  philoso- 
phies—" 


A.iid  thank   the  Lord 

Arthur's  fool. 
Swine,  say  ye?    swine,  goats,  asses, 

rams,  and  geese 
Troop'd  round  a  Paynim  harper  oace, 

who  thrumm'd 
On  such  a  wire  as  musically  as  thou 
Some  such  line   song— but  never  a 

king's  fool." 

And  Tristram,  "  Then  were  swine, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 
I  am  King 


425 


The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim 
bard 

Had  such  a  mastery  of  his  mystery 
That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out  of 
Hell." 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball  of 
his  foot, 

**  And   whither  harp'st  thou  thine  ? 

down !  and  thyself 
Down  !  and  two  more  :  a  helpful  harper 

thou, 

That  harpest  downward  !  Dost  thou 
know  the  star 

We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in  heav- 
en?" 

And  Tristram,  "Ay,  Sir  Fool,  for 
when  our  King 
Was  victor  wellnigh  day  by  day,  the 
knights. 

Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his 
name 

High  on  all  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of 
heaven." 

And  Dagonet  answer'd,  "-Ay,  and 
when  the  land 
Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye  set 
yourself 

To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your 
wit — 

And  whether  he  were  king  by  courtesy, 
Or  king  by  right— and  so  went  harping 
down 

The  black  king's  highway,  got  so  far, 
and  grew 

So  witty,  that  ye  play'd  at  ducks  and 
drakes 

With  Arthur's  vows  on  the  great  lake 
of  fire. 

Tuwhoo  !  do  ye  see  it  ?  do  ye  see  the 
star?" 

**Nay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  '-not  in 
open  day." 


And  Dagonet,  "  Nay,  nor  will :  t  see  it 

and  hear. 
It  makes  a  silent  music  up  in  heaven. 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and  the  angeU 
hear, 

And  then  we  skip,"    "Lo,  fool,"  he 

said,    ye  talk 
Fool's  treason  :  is  the  king  thy  brother 

fool?" 

Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands 

and  shrill'd, 
"  Ay,  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the  king  of 

fools  ! 

Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can 
make 

Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles, 
milk 

From  burning  spurge,  honey  from 

hornet-combs, 
And  men  from  beasts.   Long  live  the 

king  of  fools  !  " 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 
away. 

But  thro'  the  slowly-mellowing  ave» 
nues 

And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Rode  Tristram  toward  Lyonesse  and 
the  west. 

Before  him  lied  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a  rnstle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
For  all    that  walk'd,  or  crept,  or 

perched,  or  flew. 
Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a  gust  hath 

blown, 

Unruffling  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  re- 
turn'd ; 

But  at  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a  deer. 
Or  ev'n  afall'n  feather,  vanish' d  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to 
lawn 

Thro'  many  a  league-long  bower  he 

rode.    At  length 
A   lodge    of   intertwisted  beechen- 

boughs 

Furze-cramm'd,  and  bracken-roof t,  the 

which  himself 
Built  for  a  summer  day  with  Queen 

Isolt 

Against  a  shower,  dark  in  the  goldea 
grove 


4^6 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to 
where 

She  lived  a  moon  in  that  low  lodge 

with  him  : 
Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the 

Cornish  king, 
With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was 

away, 

Andsnatch'd  her  thence ;  yet  dreading 

woi  se  than  shame 
Her  warrior  Tristram,  spake  not  any 

word. 

But  bode  his  hour,  devising  wretched- 
ness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Trist- 
ram lookt 
So  sweet,  that,  halting,  in  he  past,  and 
sank 

Down  on  a  drift  of  foliage  random- 
blown  : 

But  could  not  rest  for  musing  how  to 
smooth 

And  sleek  his  marriage  ovfer  to  the 
Queen. 

Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from 
all 

The  tonguesters  of  the  court  she  had 
not  heard. 

But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  over- 
seas 

After  she  left  him  lonely  here?  a 
name  ? 

Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 
Isolt,   the  daughter   of    the  King? 
"  Isolt 

Of  the  white  hands  "  they  call'd  her  : 

the  sweet  name 
Allured  hi  in  first,  and  then  the  maid 

herself. 

Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 

hands  of  liers. 
And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had 

thought 

He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily, 
But  left  her  all  as  easily,  and  return'd. 
The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish 
eyes 

Had  drawn  him  home  —  what  marvel  ? 

then  he  laid 
His  brows  upon  the  drifted  leaf  and 

dream'd. 

He  seem'd  to  pace  the  strand  of  Brit- 
tany 


Between   Isolt  of  Britain  and  his 
bride. 

And  show'd  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 
and  both 

Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his  Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand  was 
red. 

Then  cried  the  Breton,  "Look,  her 

hand  is  red ! 
These  be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen  blood. 
And  melts  within  her  hand— her  hand 

is  hot 

With  ill  desires,  but  this  I  gave  thee, 
look, 

Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower.'* 
Follow* d  a  rush  of  eagle's  wings  and 
then 

A  whimpering  of  the  spirit  of  the 
child, 

Because  the  twain  had  spoil' d  her  car- 
ca.net. 

He  dream'd  ;  but  Arthur  with  a  hun- 
dred spears 
Rode  far,  till  o'er  the  illimitable  reed, 
And  many  a  glancing  plash  and  sal- 
lowy  isle. 

The  wide- wing' d  sunset  of  the  misty 
marsh 

Glared  on  a  huge  machicolated  tower 
That  stood  with  open  doors,  whereout 

was  roll'd 
A  roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their 

ease 

Among  their  harlot-brides,  an  evil 
song. 

Lo  there,"  said  one  of  Arthur's  youth, 
for  there. 

High  on  a  grim  dead  tree  before  the 
tower, 

A  goodly  brother  of  The  Table  Round 
Swung  by  the  neck  :  and  on  the  boughs 
a  shield 

Showing  a  shower  of  blood  in  a  field 
noir, 

And  there  beside  a  horn,  inflamed  the 
knights 

At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur, 
Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and 

blow  the  horn. 
But  Arthur  waved  them  back  :  alone 

he  rode. 

Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  ^f  the 
great  horn, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


427 


That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh 

An  eve?^  upward-rushing  storm  and 

Of  shrfek'tnd  plume,  the  Red  Knight 
heard,  and  all,  ^^^of 
Even  to  tipmost  lance  and  topmost 

In  blood-?ed  armor  sallying,  howl'd  to 

-The^S'of  Hell  flay  hare  and 
gnash  thee  flat !  —  ^^^^^a 
Lo  !  art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted 

Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood  from 

the  world— 
The  woman-worshipper?  Yea,  God  s 

curse,  and  1  ! 
Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  paramour 
By  a  kS|ht  of  thine,  and  I  that  heard 

her  whine  ^  a  ^r.^ 

And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too 
Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm  that  twists 

in  hell,  ,    ^.  , 

And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death. 
To  hang  whatever  knight  of  thine  i 

And  tumbled.    Art  thou  King  ?-Look 
to  thy  life  !  " 


Head-heavy,  while  the  knights,  who 

watcii'd  him,  roar'd 
And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the 

There^trampled  out  his  face  from  being 
known,  .         ,  t 

And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed 
themselves  : 

Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own  cries, 
but  sprang  ... 

Thro'  open  doors,  and  swordmg  right 

Men,  w'omen,  on  their  sodden  faces. 

The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  andslew 
Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman- 

And  alf  the  pavement  streani'd  with 

massacre :         ,  . 
Then,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they  fired 
the  tower,  .  ,  ^  -.m    41  ^ 

Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like  the 

live  North, 
Red-pulsing  up  thro'  Alioth  and  Alcor, 
Made  all  abovi  it,  and  a  hundred  meres 
About  it,  as  the  water  Moab  saw 
Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  be- 
yond them  flnsh'd  . 
The  long  low  dune,  and  lazy-plungmg 
sea. 


He  ended  :  Arthur  knew  the  voice  ; 
the  face  a  +v  ^ 

Wellnigh  was  helmet-hidden,  and  the 

Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling 

in  his  mind. 
And  Arthur  deign'd  not  use  of  word  or 

Bui  letThe 'drunkard,  as  he  stretch'd 
from  horse  .     ,  .  ,  n 

To  strike  him,  overbalancing  his  bulk, 

Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to 
the  swamp  ,  ,  . 

Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-archmg 

Heard^n^dead  night  along  that  table- 

Drops^^fla?,  and  after  the  great  waters 

Whiten^hfg^for  half  a  league,  and  thin 

themselves   , 

Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon  and 

From  less  and  less  to  nothing  ;  thus  he 
fell 


So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from  shore 
to  shore,  ,  • 

But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pam  was 

Then  out  of  Tristram  waking  the  red 

Fled  witli^a  shout,  and  that  low  lodge 
return' d,  . 

Mid-forest,  and  the  wind  among  the 
boughs.  ^       1  #4-  4-^ 

He  whistled  his  good  warhoise  lett  to 

Amonf^the  forest  greens,  vaulted  upoB 
And  rod'e' beneath  an  ever-showering 
Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a 

cross,  nr  r.^A 

Stay'dhim,'' Whyweepye?  Lord, 

she  said, my  man 
Hath  left  me  or  is  dead  "  ;  whereon  he 

"  What^an^she  hate  me  now  ?  I  would 
not  this. 


428 


What  an  she  love  me  still  ? 
not  that. 

I  know  not  what  I  would  "  —  but  said 
to  her,  — 

'*  Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  raate 
return, 

He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love  thee 
not"  — 

Then  pressing  day  by  day  thro'  Lyon- 
esse 

Last  in  a  roky  hollow,  belling,  heard 
The  hounds  of  Mark,  and  felt  the  good- 
ly hounds 
Yelp  at  his  heart,  but,  turning,  past  and 
gain'd 

Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on  land, 
A  crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a  casement  sat, 
A  low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her 
hair 

And  glossy- throated  grace,  Isolt  the 
Queen. 

And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tris- 
tram grind 

The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about 
her  tower, 

Flush'd.  started,  met  him  at  the  doors, 
and  there 

Belted  his  body  with  her  white  em- 
brace. 

Crying  aloud,  Not  Mark  —  not  Mark, 
my  soul ! 

The  footstep  fiutter'd  me  at  first :  not 
he  : 

Catlike  thro'  his  own  castle  steals  my 
Mark, 

But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  through 
his  halls 

Who  hates  thee,  as  I  him  —  ev'n  to  the 
death. 

My  soul,  I  felt  my  hatred  for  my 
Mark 

Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that 

thou  wert  nigh." 
To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,    I  am 

here. 

Let  be  thy  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not  thine. " 

And  drawing  somewhat  backward 
she  replied, 
"  Can  he  be  wrong'd  who  is  not  ev'n  his 
own. 

But  save  lor  dread  of  thee  had  beaten 
me, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 
I  would 


Scratch'd,  bitten,  blinded,  marr'd  mo 

somehow  —  Mark  ? 
What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not 

strike  for  them  ? 
Not  lift  a  hand  — not,  tho'  he  found 
me  thus  ! 

But  hearken,  have  ye  met  him  ?  hence 
he  went 

To-day  for  three  days'  hunting  — as  he 
said— 

And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 
Mark's  way,  my  soul !  —  but  eat  not 

thou  with  him. 
Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than 

fears ; 

Nor  drink  :  and  when  thou  passest  any 
wood 

Close  visor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the 
bush 

Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark 
and  hell. 

My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for 
IVIark 

Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for  thee." 

So,  pluck'd  one  way  by  hate  and  one 
by  love, 

Drain'd  of  her  force,  again  she  sat,  and 
spake 

To  Tristram,  as  he  knelt  before  her, 
saying, 

"  O  hunter,  andO  blower  of  the  horn, 
Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a  rover 
too, 

For,  ere  I  mated  with  my  shambling 
king. 

Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the 
bride 

Of  one  —  his  name  is  out  of  me  —  the 
prize, 

If  prize  she  were  — (what  marvel  — 

she  could  see)  — 
Thine,   friend ;  and  ever  since  my 

craven  seeks 
To  wreck  thee  villanously  :  but,  O  Sir 

Knight, 

What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneeled 
to  last?" 

And  Tristram,     Last  to  my  Queen 
Paramount, 
Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  of 

lOVCj 

And  loveliness,  ay,  lovelier  than  when 
first 


THE  LAST  TOUmAMENT, 


429 

THE  Jj^^  ^   a     «^  ^t^'  —  

Softly  laugh  d  isolt,  smilmg  seas,  . 

"    —  -       — "-'^^t,   ^^^^j,ed  from  this  tower.    Isolt  oi 
Britain  dash'd 


..Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 
My  clo?e"  of" beauty  trebled?"  and  he 
..  Her'bituty  is  her  beauty,  and  thine 
Andthtafis  more  to  me -soft,  gra- 

Savewhen'thyfei^'^-'il^'i-*'^^ 
Most  gracious  ;  but  she,  haughty,  ev'n 
Lancelot'^'for  I  have  seen  him  wan 
Tomake°"ne  doubt  if  ever  the  great 

Queen         ,     ,  „ 
Have  yielded  him  her  love. 

To  whom  Isolt, 
''Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  har- 

Who  &e^srthro'  the  scruple  of  my 

Calling^'me  thy  white  hind,  and  saying 

That  Guinevere  had  sinned  against  the 

And  1 -^mfsyoked  with  such  a  want  of 

That  T^coi^ld  hardly  sin  against  the 
lowest." 

He  answered,    O  my  soul,  he  com- 

If  this'^hf  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading 

If  herf  hTiomfort,  and  if  ours  he  sin, 
Crown'd  wa™^^  had  we  for  the  crown- 

That  mide  us  happy  :  hut  how  ye  greet 

And  faSrand  doubt -no  word  of  that 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet 
memories  ,  ^„  >» 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was  away. 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 

"  I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see  thee  -  yearnings  ?- ay  !  lor, 
hour  by  hour. 


Britain  dash  d  ^4.^c,r^t\ 
Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand 
?Vo2ld  that  have chiU'dher  bnde-kiss  ? 

FoughT^^nt«eVs  battles,  wound- 

The  King  was  all  f ulfiU'd  with  gratef  ul- 

And  she' my  namesake  of  the  hands, 

Thy  hurf  and'heart  with  unguent  and 

Well  -  Ja'n  f^ish  her  any  huger  wron^^^ 
Than  having  known  thee  ?  her  too  hast 

TO  pine'Vnd  waste  in  those  sweet 

OwerriCt  my  Mark's,  by  whom  all 

Are  nobfe,  I  should  hate  thee  more 
than  love." 
And  Tristram,  fondling  her  light 
<.GracrQuee«'^eing  loved:  she 
Did  iTovnirTL  name  at  least  I 

Isolt '-ffougM  Ws  battles,  for  Isolt ! 
The  night  was  dark;  the  truestar  set. 

The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark  

care  not  ".^r  her  !  patient,  and  prayer- 
Pale-blood^rshe  will  yield  herself  to 
And  Isolt  answer'd,  "  Yea,  and  why 
Mine  "f  the  larger  need,  who  am  not 
Pale-bTooded,  prayerful.  Let  me  tell 
Here  onl  bS,'  mute  midsummer  Bight 
Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wondering 

Murmuring  alight  song  I  had  heard 
thee  sing, 


430 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


And  once  or  twice  I  spake  tby  name 
aloud. 

Then  flasli'd  a  levin-brand  ;  and  near 
me  stood, 

In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green,  a 
fiend  — 

Mark's  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 
dark  — 

For  there  was  Mark  :  *  He  has  wedded 

her,'  he  said. 
Not  said,  but  hissed  it :  then  this  crown 

of  towers 

So  shook  to  such  a  roar  of  all  the  sky, 
That  here  in  utter  dark  I  swoon'd 
away. 

And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and 
cried, 

'  I  will  flee  hence  and  give  mvself  to 
God '  — 

And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new  leman's 
arms." 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dailying  with 
her  hand, 

"  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

old  and  gray, 
And  past  desire  !  "  a  saying  that  an- 

ger'd  her. 
'May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

thou  art  old, 
And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! '  I  need 

Him  now. 

For  when  had  Lancelot  utter'd  aught 

so  gross 

Ev'n  to  tlie  swineherd's  malkin  in  the 
mast  ? 

The  greatei  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 
But  thou,  thro'  ever  harrying  thy  wild 
beasts  — 

Save  that  to  touch  a  harp,  tilt  with  a 
lance 

Becomes  thee  well  — art  grown  wild 

beast  thyself. 
How  darest  t  libu,  if  lover,  push  me  even 
111  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  sot  me  far 
I II  the  gray  distaiu  e,  half  a  life  away, 
Here  to  be  loved  no  more?    Unsay  it, 

unswear ! 

Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak. 

Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  soli- 
tude, * 

Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I 
should  suck 

Lies  like  sweet  wines :  lie  to  me  :  I 
belicF^. 


Will  ye  not  lie  ?  not  swear,  as  there  y« 
kneel. 

And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  to  him, 
The  man  of  men,  our  King  —  My  God, 

the  power 
Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed 

the  King  ! 
They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and 

thro'  their  vows 
The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm  :— 

I  say, 

Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev'n 
when  old. 

Gray-haired,  and  past  desire,  and  in 
despair." 

Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up 
and  down, 
"  A^'ows  !  did  ye  keep  the  vow  ye  made 
to  INT  ark 

More  than  I  mine  ?   Lied,  say  ye  ? 

Nay,  but  learnt, 
The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 

itself  — 

My  kni^thtliood  taught  me  this  —  ay, 

being  snai)t  — 
We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul  thereof 
Than  had  we  never  sworn.   1  swear  no 

more. 

I  swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am  for- 
sworn, 

For  once  —  ev'n  to  the  height — I  hon^ 
or'd  him. 

*  Man,  is  he  man  at  all  ? '  methought, 

when  first 
I  rode  from  our  rough  Lyonesse,  and 

beheld 

That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in 
hall— 

His  hair^  a  sun  that  ray'd  from  olT  a 
brow 

Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the  steel- 
blue  eyes, 

The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his  lipa 
with  light — 

Moreover,  that  weird  legond  of  hia 
birth, 

With  Merlin's  mystic  babble  about  his 
end, 

Amazed  me  ;  then,  his  foot  was  on  a 
stool 

Shaped  as  a  dragon  ;  he  seem'd  to  me 
no  man, 

But  Michael  trampling  Satan  ;  so  I 
aware, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Being  amazed  :  but  this  went  by— the 
vows ! 

O  ay— the  wholesome  madness  of  an 
hour 

They  served  their  use,  their  time  ;  tor 

every  knight 
Believed  himself  a  greater  than  himself 
And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a 

God ; 

Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  himself, 
Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he 

had  done. 
And  so  the  realm  was  made  ;  but  then 

their  vows — 
First  mainly  thro'  that  sullying  of  our 

Queen- 
Began  to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking 

whence 

Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to  him- 
self ?  ,  , 

Dropt  down  from  heaven  ?  wash  d  up 
from  out  the  deep  ? 

They  fail'd  to  trace  him  thro'  the  flesh 
and  blood 

Of  our  old  Kings  :  whence  then  ?  a 
doubtful  lord 

To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows, 

Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 
violate  : 

For  feel  this  arm  of  mine— the  tide 
within 

Bed  with  free  chase  and  heather- 
scented  air, 

Pulsing  full  man  ;  can  Arthur  make 
me  pure 

As  any  maiden  child?  lock  up  my 
tongue 

From  uttering  freely  what  I  freely 
hear  ? 

Bind  me  to  one?  The  great  world 

laughs  at  it. 
And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and 

know 

The  ptarmigan  that  whitens  ere  his 
hour 

Wooes  his  own  end  ;  we  are  not  angels 
here 

Nor  shall  be  :  vows— I  am  woodman  of 

the  woods, 
And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaffingale 
Mock  them  :  my  soul,  we  love  but  while 

we  may; 

And  therefore  is  my  love  so  .large  for 
thee, 

Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by  love.' 


431 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her, 

and  she  said, 
Good  :  an  I  turn'd  away  my  love  for 

thee 

To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as  thy- 
self— 

For  courtesy  wins  woman  all  as  well 
As  valor  may— b»t  he  that  closes  both 
Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot— taller  in- 
deed, 

Rosier,  and  comelier,  thou— but  say  I 
loved 

This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and 

cast  thee  back 
Thine  own  small  saw  *We  love  but 

while  we  may,' 
Well  then,  what  answer  ?  " 

He  that  while  she  spake, 
Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn 

her  with. 

The  jewels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly 

touch 

The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat, 
replied, 

Press  this  a  little  closer,  sweet,  un. 

Come,  I  am  hunger'd  and  half-anger'd 
— meat. 

Wine,  wine— and  I  will  love  thee  to  the 
death, 

And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to 
come." 

So  then,  when  both  were  brought  to 

full  accord. 
She  rose,  and  set  before  him  all  he 

wiird;  o    .  ,  ^T. 

And  after  these  had  comforted  the 

blood  ,     ^.  ^  ^ 

With  meats  and  wmes,  and  satiated 

their  hearts— 
Now  talking  of  their  woodland  para- 
dise, ^ 
The  deer,  the  dews,  the  fern,  the 

founts,  the  lawns  ;  , 
Now  mocking  at  the  much  ungamli- 

ness,  , 
And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane  legs 

of  Mark—  -u^  ^v. 

Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the 

harp,  and  sang : 
"  Ay,  ay,  O  ay— the  winds  that  bend 

the  brier  !  .  ,  . 

A  star  in  heaven,  a  star  withm  th© 

mere ! 


432 


GUINEVERE, 


Ay,  ay,  O  ay— a  star  was  my  desire, 
And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was 
near  : 

Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  bow  the 


And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was 
fire. 

And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will 
pass. 

Ay,  ay,  O  ay— the  winds  that  move  the 
mere." 

Then  in  the  liglit'slast  glimmer  Tris- 
tram show'd 
And  swung  the  ruby  carcanet.  She 
cried, 

*'  The  collar  of  some  order,  which  our 
King 

Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my 
soul, 

For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond 
thy  peers." 

" Not  so,  my  Queen,"  he  said,  ''but 
the  red  fruit 
Grown  on  a  magic  oak-tree  in  mid- 
heaven, 

And  won  by  Tristram  as  a  tourney- 
prize, 

And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for  his 
last 

Love-olfering  and  peace-olf ering  unto 
thee." 

He  rose,  he  turn'd,  and  flinging  round 
her  neck, 

Claspt  it ;  bat  while  he  bow'd  himself 
to  lay 

Warm  kisses  in  the  hollow  of  her 
throat, 

Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had 
touch'd. 

Behind  him  rose  a  shadow  and  a  shricl— 
**  Mark's  way,"  said  Mark,  and  clove 
him  thro'  the  brain . 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and 
while  he  climb'd, 
All  in  a  death-dumb  autumn-dripping 
gloom, 

The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look'd 
and  saw 

The  great  Queen'.s  bower  was  dark, — 

about  his  feet 
A  voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  question'd 

it. 


*'  What  art  thou  ?  "  and  the  Yoice  aboa^ 
his  feet 

Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  ' '  I  am  thj 
fool, 

And  I  shall  never  make  thee  smil« 
again." 


GUINEVERE. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court, 
and  sat 

There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping^  none  with  her  save  a  little 
maid, 

A  novice  :  one  low  light  betwixt  them 
burn'd 

Blurr'd  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all 
abroad, 

Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full. 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the 
face. 

Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 
was  still. 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of 
flight 

Sir  Modred  ;  he  that  like  a  subtle  beast 
Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
throne. 

Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance  :  for 
this. 

He  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the 
King 

With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparage- 
ment ; 

And  tamper'd  with  the  Lords  of  the 

White  Horse, 
Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left ; 

and  sought 
To   make    disruption  in  the  Table 

Round 

Of  Artliur  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end  ;  and  all  his 
aims 

Were  sharpen'd  by  strong  hate  ^or 

Lancelot. 
For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  wl.en 

all  the  court, 
Green-suited,  but  with  plumes  t\>at 

mock'd  the  may, 
Had  been,  their  wont,  a-maying  and 

return'd, 

That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and 
eye. 


GUINEVERE. 


Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden- 
wall 

To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 
And  saw  the  Queen  who  sat  betwixt 
her  best 

Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst ;  and  more 
than  this 

He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing 
by 

Spied  where  he  couch'd,  and  as  the 
gardener's  hand 

Picks  from  the  cole  wort  a  green  cater- 
pillar, 

So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering 

grove 

Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck' d  him  by  the 
heel. 

And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way; 
But  when  he  knew  the  Prince  tho' 

marr'd  with  dust, 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad 

man, 

Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and 
these 

Full  knightly  without  scorn  ;  for  in 

those  days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in 

scorn  ; 

But,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  hunch'd,  in 
him 

By  those  whom  God  had  made  full- 

limb'd  and  tall, 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect, 
And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the 

King 

And  all  his  Table.  So  Sir  Lancelot  holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice 
or  thrice 

Full    sharply  smote  his  knees,  and 

smiled,  and  went  : 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence 

done 

Kankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his 
heart. 

As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day 

A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she 
laugh'd 

Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dusty 
fall, 

28 


Then  shudder'd,  as  the  village  wife 
who  cries 
I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my 
grave  ; " 

Then  laugh'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for 
indeed 

She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle 
beast. 

Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found, 
and  hers 

Would  be  for  evermore  a  name  of 
scorn. 

Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front 
in  Hall, 

Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy 
face,   

Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persis- 
tent eye  : 

Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that 

tend  the  soul, 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot 

die. 

And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.    Many  a  time 

for  hours. 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the 

King, 

In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and 
went 

Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking 
doors. 

Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted 
house. 

That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the 

walls- 
Held  her  awake  :  or  if  she  slept,  she 

dream'd 

An  awful  dream  ;  for  then  she  seem'd 
to  stand 

On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  sun, 
And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at 
her 

A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow 
flew 

Before  it,  till  it  touch'd  her,  and  she 
turn'd — 

When  lo  !  her  own,  that  broadening 

from  her  feet. 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land, 

and  in  it 

Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  sh« 
woke. 

And  all  this  trouble  ^id  not  pass  bul 
grew  ; 


Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless 
r  King, 

And  trustful  courtesies  of  household 
life, 

Became  her  bane  ;  and  at  the  last  she 
said, 

O  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine 
own  land, 

For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 
And  if  we  meet  again,  some  evil  chance 
Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal 

break  and  blaze 
Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the 

King." 

And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  re- 
main'd, 

And  still  they  met  and  met.  AL,ain  she 
said, 

*'  O  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 
hence." 

And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a 
night 

(When  the  good  King  should  not  be 

there)  to  meet 
And  part  for  ever.   Passion-pale  they 

met 

And  greeted  :  hands  in  hands,  and  eye 
to  eye, 

Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they 
sat 

Stammering  and  staring  :  it  was  their 
last  hour. 

A  madness  of  farewells.  And  Modred 
brought 

His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the 
tower 

For  testimony  ;  and  crying  with  full 
voice 

"  Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at 
last,"  aroused 

Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lion- 
like 

Leapt  on  him  and  hurl'd  him  headlong, 

and  he  fell 
Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and 

6are  liim  oft" 
And  all  was  still  :  then  she,  "  the  end 

is  come 

And  I  am  shamed  for  ever  ;  "  and  ho 
said 

^'Mine  be  the  shame;  mine  was  the 

sin  :  but  rise. 
And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas  : 
There  will  I  hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall 

end, 


GUINEVERE. 


There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against 
the  world." 

She  answer' d  Lancelot,  wilt  thou 
hold  me  so  ? 

Nay  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  fare- 
wells. 

Would  God,  that  thou  couldst  hide  me  . 

from  myself  ! 
Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and 

thou 

Unwedded  ;  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us 
flv, 

For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary. 
And  bide  my  doom."    So  Lancelot  got 

her  horse, 
Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his 

own. 

And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way. 
There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping  :  for 
he  past. 

Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the 
Queen, 

Back  to  his  land ;  but  she  to  Almes- 
bury 

Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering- 
waste  and  weald. 

And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and 
weald 

Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 

them  moan  : 
And  in  herself  she  moaned    too  late, 

too  late  !  " 
Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the 

morn, 

A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying 
high, 

Croak'd,  and  she  thought  "  he  spies  a 

field  of  death ; 
For  now  the  Heathen  of  the  Northern 

Sea, 

Liired  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the 
court, 

Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the 
land." 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury 
she  spake 
There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  mine 
enemies 

Pursue  me,  but,  O  peaceful  Sister- 
hood, 

Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor 

ask 

Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her 
time 


To  tell  you  :  "  and  her  beauty,  grace, 

and  power 
Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  and 

they  spared 
To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among 

the  nuns  ; 
Nor  with  them   mix'd,  nor  told  her 

name,  nor  sought. 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for 

shrift. 

But  communed  only  with  the  little 
maid, 

Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heed- 
lessness 

Which  often  lured  her  from  herself  ; 
but  now, 

This  night,  a  rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurped 

the  realm. 
And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen, 

while  the  King 
Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot  :  then 

she  thought, 
With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  the 

King 

Must  hate  me,"  and  bow'ddown  upon 

her  hands 
Silent,   until   the   little  maid,  who 

brook 'd 

No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering     late  ! 
so  late  ! 

What  hour,  I  wonder,  now?"  and 

when  she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 
An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her ;  "  late, 

so  late !  " 

Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen 

look'd  up,  and  said, 
"  O  maiden,  if  indeed  ye  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may 
weep." 

Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little 
maid. 

Late,  late  so  late  !  and  dark  the 
night  and  chill  ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !  but  we  can  enter 
still. 

Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter 
now. 

"  No  light  had  we  :  for  that  we  d© 
repent ; 


VERE.      9  43B 

And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will 
relent. 

Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  No  light :  so  late  !  and  dark  and 

chill  the  night ! 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late  :  ye  cannot  enter 

now. 

Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom 
is  so  sweet  ? 

0  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late !    ye  cannot  enter 

now." 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  pas- 
sionately. 

Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remembering 
Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wepu 

the  sad  Queen. 
Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to 

her. 

O  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no 
more  : 

But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so 
small. 

Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to 
obey. 

And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given- 
Comfort  your  sorrows  ;  for  they  do  not 
flow 

From  evil  done  ;  right  sure  am  T  of 
that, 

Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  stateli- 
ness. 

But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord 

the  King's, 
And  weighing  find  them  less ;  for  gone 

is  he 

To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot 
there. 

Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds 

the  Queen  ; 
And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge  of 

all, 

The  traitor— Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King's 
grief 

For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queeii; 

and  realm. 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of 

ours. 

For  me,  I  thank  the  saints,  I  am  not 
great. 

For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 

1  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done  : 


43G 


GUINEVERE. 


None  knows  it  and  my  tears  have 

brought  me  good  : 
But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 
As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this 

grief 

Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must 
bear, 

That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 
Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a 
cloud : 

As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 
About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked 
Queen, 

And  were  I  such  a  King  with  such  a 
Queen, 

Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wicked- 
ness, 

But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  not 
be." 

Then  to  2ier  own  sad  heart  mutter'd 
the  Queen. 
"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  inno- 
cent talk  ?  " 
But  openly  she  answer'd    must  not  I, 
If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  hi:; 
lord, 

Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all 
the  realm  ?  " 

Yea,"  said  the  maid,     this  is  all 

woman's  grief, 
Thats/i^'  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table 

Round 

Which   good  King  Arthur  founded, 

years  ago, 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders, 

there 

At  Camel  ot,  ere  the  coming  of  the 
Queen." 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  her- 
self again  ; 
'*  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  fool- 
ish prate  ?  " 
But  openly  slie  spake  and  said  to  her  ; 
O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery 
walls. 

What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and 

Tables  Round, 
Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 

signs 

And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery?" 
To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulous- 
ly. 


Yea,  but  I  know :  the  land  was  full 

of  signs 

And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the 
Queen, 

So  said  my  father,  aiid  himself  was 
knight 

Of  the  great  Table  —  at  the  founding 
of  it ; 

And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse,  and 
he  said 

That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe 
twain 

After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he 
heard 

Strange  music,  and  he  paused  and 

turning  —  there. 
All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyon- 
.  nesse. 

Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head. 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his 
feet. 

He  saw  them  —  headland  after  head- 
land flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west : 
And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden 
swam. 

And  strong  man-breasted  things  scood 

from  the  sea. 
And  sent  a  deep  sea-voice  thro'  all  the 

land. 

To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and 
cleft 

Made  answer,  sounding  like  a  distant 
liorn. 

So  said  my  father  —  yea,  and  further- 
more, 

Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim- 
lit  woods, 

Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with 
joy 

Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside 
flower, 

That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle 
shakes 

When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for 

the  seed  : 
And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his 

horse 

The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel' d  and 
broke 

Flying,  and  link'd  again,  and  wheel'd 

and  broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camolot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-han4 


Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the 
hall;  ^    ,  , 

And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream'd  :  for  every 
knight 

Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long  d  tor 
served 

By  hands  unseen  ;  and  even  as  he  said 
Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated 

things  ^ 
Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on 

the  butts 

While  the  wine  ran:  so  glad  were 

spirits  and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen." 

Then  spake  the  Queen  and  somewhat 
bitterly. 

"Were  they  so  glad?  ill  prophets 

were  they  all, 
Spirits  and  men  :  could  none  of  them 

Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upon  the 
realm?" 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously 
again.  ^ 

*<  Yea,  one,  a  bard ;  of  whom  my  father 
said,  ,    ,  - 

Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he 
sung, 

£v'n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy  s 
fleet, 

Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming 
wave ;  ^^s:  a 

And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  lite  ana 
death  . 

Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountam- 

When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the 
hills  , ,        ,  - 

With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back 

So  said  my  father— and  that  night  the 
bard 

Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and  sang 
the  King 

As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail  d 

at  those  ^  ^ 

Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gor- 

lois :  ,  i. 

For  there  was  no  man  knew  trom 

whence  he  came ; 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  longwave 

broke 


GUINEVERE.  437 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of 

Bude  and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven, 
and  then 

They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the 

Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea  ; 
And  that  was  Arthur  ;  and  they  fos- 
ter'd  him 

Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  king  : 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
From  all  men,  like  his  birth  ;  and 

could  he  find 
A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As  he  was  in  his  manliood,  then,  he 
sang, 

The  twain  together  well  might  change 

the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the 
harp. 

And  pale  he  turn'd,  and  reel'd,  and 

would  have  fall'n. 
But  that  they  stay'dhim  up  ;  nor  would 

he  tell  ^  ^ 

His  vision ;  but  what  doubt  that  he  fore- 
saw ^  ^    '  ^ 
This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the 
Queen?" 

Then  thought  the  Queen  "  lo  !  they 
have  set  her  on, 
Our  simple-seeming  Abbess  and  her 
nuns, 

To  play  upon  me,"  and  bow'd  her  head 

nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp  d 
hands, 

Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulous- 
ly, 

Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her 

gadding  tongue 
Full  often,  "and,  sweet  lady,  it  1 

To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me. 
Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  the 

Which  my  good  father  told,  check  me 
too : 

Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory, 

Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would 

Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest ;  and  he 
died, 


438 


GUINEVERE. 


Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  sum- 
mers back, 
And  left  me  ;  but  of  others  who  remain, 
And  of  the  two  first-famed  for  court- 
esy— 

And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss — 
But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while 

you  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the 

King?" 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  up  and 

answer'd  her. 
Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble 

knight. 

Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
111  open  battle  or  the  tilting-tield 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  the 
King 

In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these 
two 

Were  the  most  nobly-mannered  men  of 
all  ; 

For  maimers  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  maid,  **be  manners 
such  fair  fruit  ? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thou- 
sand-fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs. 
The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the 
world." 

To  which  a  mournful  answer  made 
the  Queen. 
**  O  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery- 
walls. 

What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and 

all  its  lights 
And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the 

woe  ? 

If   ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble 
knight. 

Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  him- 
self, 

Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of 
fire. 

And  weep  for  her,  who  drew  him  to  his 
doom." 

**  Yea,"  said  the  little  novice,  **  I  pray 
for  both  ; 

But  t  should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his. 
Sir  Lancelot's,  were  as  noble  as  the 
King's, 


As  I  could  think,  sweet  lady,  yours 
would  be 

Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful 
Queen." 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler, 
hurt 

Whom  she  would  soothe,  and  harm'd 

where  she  would  heal ; 
For  here  a  sudden  flush  of  wrathful 

heat 

Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen, 

who  cried, 
''Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden 

more 

For  ever !  thou  their  tool,  set  on  to 
plague 

And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
And  traitress."    When  that  storm  of 

anger  brake 
From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden 

rose, 

White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the 
Queen 

As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,  ready  to  break  and 

fly, 

And  when  the  Queen  had  added  "  get 

thee  hence  " 
Fled  frighted.    Then  that  other  left 

alone 

Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again. 
Saying  in  herself  "  the  simple,  fearful 
child 

Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful 
guilt 

Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I  re- 
pent. 

For  wliat  is  true  repentance  but  in 

thought— 
Not  ev'n  in  inmost  thought  to  think 

again 

The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant 
to  us  : 

And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him 

more, 
To  see  him  more." 

And  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memoi-y  from  old  habits  of  the 
mind 

Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden 
days 

In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lance* 
lot  came, 


Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest 
man, 

Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far 
ahead 

Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Baptin  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure,  (for 
the  time 

Was  may  time,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 
dream'd,) 

Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  para- 
dise 

Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd  the  heavens  upbreaking 

thro'  the  earth. 
And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The   silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur 

raised 

For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ;  and  on  again. 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they 
saw 

The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 
ship, 

That  crown' d  the  state  pavilion  of  the 
King, 

Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent 
well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in 
such  a  trance, 
And  moving  through  the  past  uncon- 
ciously, 

Came  to  that  point  where  first  she  saw 
the  King 

Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to 
find 

Her  journey  done,  glanced  at  him, 

thought  him  cold. 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless, 

not  like  him, 
**Not  like  my  Lancelot" — while  she 

brooded  thus 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts 

again, 

There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the 
doors. 

A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nun- 
nery ran, 

Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,    the  King." 
She  sat 

Stiff-Btricken,    listening;  but  when 
armed  feet 


VERB,  439 

Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer 

doors 

Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat 
she  fell. 

And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the 
floor  : 

There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and 

shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the 

King : 

And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed 
feet 

Pause  by  her  ;  then  came  silence,  then 
a  voice, 

Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing     judgment,     but  tho' 
changed  the  King's. 

"  Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of 
one 

I  honor'd,  happy,  dead  before  thy 
shame  ? 

Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  bom  of  thee  are  sword 
and  fire, 

Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of 
laws. 

The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless 
hosts 

Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  North- 
ern Sea. 

Whom  I.  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my 

riglit  arm, 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode 

with  me. 

Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of 
Christ 

In  twelve  great  battles  ruining  over- 
thrown. 

And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I 

come— from  him, 
From  waging  bitter  war  with  him  : 

and  he. 

That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in 

worse  way, 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him 

left, 

He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the 
King 

Who  made  him  knight :  but  many  a 

knight  was  slain ; 
And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and 

kin 

Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own 
land. 


440 


GUINEVERE. 


And  many  more  when  Modred  raised 
revolt, 

Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty, 
clave 

To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with 
me. 

And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a 
part. 

True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom 
I  live, 

To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming 
on. 

Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  he 
harm'd. 

Fear  not  :  thou  shalt  be  guarded  till 

my  death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet 

my  doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet 

to  me, 

That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to 
live  ; 

For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my 
life. 

Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I 
show, 

Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou 

hast  sinn'd. 
For  when  tbe  Roman  left  us,  and  their 

law 

Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  aud  the  ways 
Were  fill'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there 
a  deed 

Of  prowess  done  redress'd  a  random 
wrong. 

But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who 
drew 

The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm 
and  all 

The  realms  together  under  me,  their 
Head, 

In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of 
men. 

To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty 
world, 

And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
I  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine 

and  swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience 

as  their  King, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the 

Christ, 


To  ride  abroad  redressing  humau 
wrongs. 

To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to 
it. 

To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity. 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to 
her. 

And  worship  her  by  years  of  nol>le 
deeds. 

Until  they  won  her  ;  for  indeed  I 
knew 

Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a 
maid. 

Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in 
man, 

But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable 
words 

And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of 
fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes 
a  man. 

And  all  this  throve  until  I  wedded 
thee  ! 

Believing,  'lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to 
feel 

My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in-my  joy.' 
Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with 

Lancelot ; 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and 

Isolt ; 

Then  others,f  ollowing  these  my  mighti- 
est knights. 

And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair 
names, 

Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  ob- 
tain, 

And  all  thro'  thee  !  so  that  this  life  of 
mine 

I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe 

and  wrong, 
Not  greatly  care  to  lose  ;  but  rather 

think 

How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he 
live, 

To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely 
hall. 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my 
knights. 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble 

deeds 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  tliy  sin. 
For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  l«ft» 
could  speak 


GUINl 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance 
at  thee  ? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 
Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from 

room  to  room, 
And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with 

thee 

In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament 
Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 
For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not 

love  thy  lord, 
Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for 

thee. 

I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 
Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy 
shame. 

I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public 
foes 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's 
sake, 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets 
the  wife 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule 

the  house  : 
For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow' d 
Her   station,  taken  everywhere  for 

pure, 

She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to 
men. 

Creeps,  n   precaution  used,  among  the 
crowd, 

Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes, 
and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the 
pulse 

With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half 

the  young. 
Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he 

that  reigns ! 
Better  the  King's  waste  hearth  and 

aching  heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of 

light, 

The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their 
bane." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she 
crept  an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his 
feet. 

Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war- 
horse  neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake 
again. 


'  VETtE.  441 

"  Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge 
thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guine- 
vere, 

I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  m» 
die 

To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden 
head^ 

My  pride  m  happier  summers,  at  my 
feet. 

The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts 

on  that  fierce  law. 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming 

death, 

(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here) 
is  past. 

The  pang — which  while  I  weigh' d  thy 

heart  with  one 
Too  wh  .)lly  true  to  dream  untruth  in 

thee, 

Made  my  tears  burn— is  also  past,  in 
part. 

And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo  !  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives  :  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul 
the  rest. 

But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I 
loved  ? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to 

play 

Not    knowing !   O  imperial-moulded 
form. 

And  beauty  such  as  never  woman 
wore. 

Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with 
thee— 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not 

mine. 

But  Lancelot's  :  nay,  they  never  were 

the  King's- 
I  cannot  take  thy  hand ;  that  too  is 

flesh. 

And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd  ;  and 

mine  own  flesh. 
Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted, 

cries 

*  I  loathe  thee  :  *  yet  not  less,  O  Guine- 
vere, 

For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 
My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into 
my  life 

So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee 
still. 

Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thea 
still, 


442  GUINE 

Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy 
soul, 

And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father 
Christ, 

Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are 
pure 

We  two  may  meet  before  high  God, 
and  thou 

Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine, 

and  know 
I  am  thine  husband  —  not  a  smaller 

soul, 

Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Leave  me 
that, 

I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.  Now  must 
1  hence. 

Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trum- 
pet blow  : 

They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead 
mine  hosts 

Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the 
west. 

Where  I  must  strike  against  the  man 
they  call 

My  sister's  son  —  no  kin  of  mine,  who 
leagues 

With  lords  of  the  White  Horse,  hea- 
then, and  knights  — 

Traitors  —  and  strike  him  dead,  and 
meet  myself 

Death,  or  1  know  not  what  mysterious 
doom. 

And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn 

the  event ; 
But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 
Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more. 
Farewell ! " 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet. 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er 

her  neck, 

And  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen 
head. 

Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that 
blest. 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps 
were  gone, 

Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  an- 
guish found 

The  casement :  **  peradventure  "  so  she 
thought, 

"  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be 
seen." 

And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the 
door  ! 


VERB, 

And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each 
a  light 

Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 

the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm 

was  lower'd, 
To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon 

clung 

Of  Britain  ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face. 
Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she 
saw. 

Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 
lights, 

The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon- 
ship 

Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of 
fire. 

And  even  then  he  turn'd;  and  more 
and  more 

The  moony  vapor  rolling  round  the 
King, 

Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant 
in  it, 

Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made 
him  gray 

And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as 
mist 

Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his 
doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and 
cried  aloud 
Arthur!"  there  her  voice  brake 
suddenly. 

Then— as  a  stream  that  spouting  from 
a  cliff 

Fails  in  mid  air,  but  gathering  at  the 
base 

Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 
vale  — 

Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

Gone — my  Irod  ! 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be 
slain ! 

And  he  forgave  me,  and  I  could  not 
speak. 

Farewell  ?   I  should  have  answer'd  his 
farewell. 

His  mercy  choked  me.   Gone,  my  lord 
the  King, 

My  own  true  lord  !  how  dare  I  call  him 
mine  ? 

The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me^ 


And  makes  me  one  pollution  :  he,  the 
King, 

Call'd  me  polluted  :  shall  I  kill  myself  ? 
What  help  in  that  ?   I  cannot  kill  my 
sin, 

If  soul  be  soul ;  nor  can  I  kill  ray 
shame  ; 

No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 

to  months. 
The  months  will  add  themselves  and 

make  the  years, 
The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries. 
And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of 

fame. 

Let  the  world  be ;  that  is  but  of  the 
world. 

What  else  ?  what  hope  ?  I  think  there 

was  a  hope, 
Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake 

of  hope ; 

His  hope  he  call'd  it ;  but  he  never 
mocks, 

For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little 
hearts. 

And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath 
forgiven 

My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me 
hope 

That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  down 
sin 

And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the 
heavens 

Before  high  God.  Ah  great  and  gentle 
lord, 

Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint 
Among  his  warring  senses,  to  thy 

knights  — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride, 

that  took 

Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below. 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised 

the  height 
To  which  I  would  not  or  I  could  not 

climb — 

I  thought  I  could  not  breathe  in  that 
fine  air 

That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light — 
I  wanted  warmth  and  color  which  I 
found 

In  Lancelot — now  I  see  thee  what 
thou  art, 

Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human 
too, 


VERB.  i4£ 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.   Is  there 
none 

Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so 
late  ? 

Now  —  ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle  ? 
none  : 

Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life. 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.   Ah  my 
God, 

What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy 

fair  world, 
Had  I  but  loved  thy  highest  creature 

here  ? 

It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  high- 
est ; 

It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known  ; 
It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  I 
seen. 

We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when 
we  see  it, 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

Here  her  hand 

Grasp'd,  made  her  veil  her  eyes  :  she 
look'd  and  saw 

The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and 
said  to  her 

"  Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  /  not  for- 
given ?" 

Then  glancing  up  bsheld  the  holy  nuns 
All  round  her,  weeping  ;  and  her  heart 

was  loosed 
Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these 

and  said. 

"  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one, 
who  broke 
The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the 
King. 

0  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nun- 

nery-walls, 
Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying 
'  shame.' 

1  must  not  scorn  myself  :  he  loves  me 

still. 

Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me 
still. 

So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me 
Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with 
you  ; 

Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a  nun 
like  you  ; 

Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with 

your  feasts  ; 
Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at 

your  joys. 


444  THE  PASSING 

But  not  rejoicing  ;  mingle  with  your 
rites ; 

Pray  and  be  pray'd  for  ;  lie  before  your 
shrines ; 

Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house  ; 
Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute 
dole 

To  pooL-  sick  people,  richer  in  his  eyes 
•  WIm)  ransom'd  us,  and  haler  too  than  I ; 
And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and 

heal  mine  own  ; 
And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in 

prayer 

The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous 
day, 

Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the 
King." 

She  said :  they  took  her  to  them- 
selves J  and  she 
Still  hoping,  fearing  "is  it  yet  too 
late?" 

Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Ab- 
bess died. 

Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her 
pure  life, 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in 
her, 

And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had 
borne, 

Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess, 
lived 

For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an 

Abbess,  past 
To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is 

peace. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere, 

First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the 
knights. 

Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than 
a  voice 

In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces,  other 
minds. 

Before  that  last  weird  battle  in  the 
west 

There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gawain 
kill'd 

In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 
blown 


OF  ARTHUR. 

Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  hie 
ear 

Went  shrilling    Hollow,  hollow  all  de- 
light ! 

Hail,  king  !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 
away. 

Farewell!  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for 
thee. 

And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering 
wind. 

And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  de- 
light." 

And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds 

that  change 
Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their 

way 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long 

wind  the  dream 
Shrill' d  ;  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim 

cries 

Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills, 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sack'd  by  night. 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child 
with  wail 

Pass  to  new  lords ;  and  Arthur  woke 
and  call'd. 
Who  spake  ?  A  dream.  O  light  upon 
the  wind. 

Thine,  Gnwain,  was  the  voice  — are 

these  dim  cries 
Thine?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the 

waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with 

me  ?" 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and 
spake : 

O  me,  my  king,  let  pass  whatever  will, 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the 
held  J 

But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 
cling 

To  all  higli  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
For  ever  :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not 
pass. 

Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 
death 

Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from 

him,  but  rise— 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west, 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people  and 

knights 

Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but 
grosser  grown 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


445 


Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows 
and  thee. 

Bight  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for 
the  king. 

Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere  : 

"  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove 
in  youth, 

And  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman 
wall, 

And  shook  him  thro'  the  north.  Ill 

doom  is  mine 
To  war  against  my  people  and  my 

knights . 

The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights 
himself. 

And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me 

once,  the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death 

to  me. 

Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  away 
Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since 
I  saw 

One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 

Then  rose  the  king  and  moved  his 
host  by  night, 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by 


Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyon- 
nesse — 

A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again  ; 
Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples 
dwelt. 

And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a 
coast 

Of  ever-shitting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no 
more. 

And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the 
king; 

And  there,  that  day  when  the  great 

light  of  heaven 
Burn'd  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year. 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea 

they  closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 

west. 


A  death  white  mist  Biept  over  sand  and 
sea : 

Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 
it,  drew 

Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart 
was  cold 

With  formless  fear  :  and  ev'n  on  Arthur 
fell 

Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he 
fought, 

For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the 
mist. 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing 

whom  he  slew  ; 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden 

youth, 

And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle  ;  and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base. 
And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in 

single  fights. 
And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the 

hard  mail  hewn, 
Shield-breakings,  and  Ihe   clash  of 

brands,  the  crash 
Of  battle-axes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and 

shrieks 

After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling 
down 

Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the 
mist ; 

And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor 
knights. 

Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blas- 
phemies, 

Sweat,  writhings,  anguish  laboring  of 
the  lungs 

In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the 
light. 

Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the 
dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  death-bed  after 
wail 

Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro' 
death 

Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 
shore. 

Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething 
seas, 

A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolor- 
ous day 

Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling, 
came 


446 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North, 
and  blew 

The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 
tide 

Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across 
the  field 

Of  battle  :  but  no  man  was  moving 
there  ; 

Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon, 
Nor  yet  of  heathen  ;  only  the  wan  wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and 
down 

Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets,  of  the 
fallen, 

And  shiver'd  brands  that  once  had 

fought  with  Rome, 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir 
Bedivere, 

And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day 
long 

Had  held  the  ^eld  of  battle  was  the 
King  : 

"  Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that 
shakes  the  world, 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  where- 
on we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 
My  dead,  as  tlio'  they  had  not  died  for 
me?— 

O  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  f all'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am, 
Nor  whence  I  am,  nor  whether  I  be 
king. 

Behold,  I  seem  but  king  among  the 
dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  My  King, 
King  everywhere  !  and  so  the  dead 

have  kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  king. 
'  Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I 
live 

Who  love  thee  ;  but  who  hates  thee, 

he  that  brought 
The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder 

stands, 

Modred,  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine 
house." 

Then  spake  the  King  :    My  house 
hath  been  my  doom. 


But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my 

house 

Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof 
with  me. 

My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware 
my  vows. 

Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them, 

own'd  me  king. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark 

hour, 

When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne 

hath  fail'd. 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for 

king. 

King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry  ; 
And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt  thou 
see 

Yet,  ere  I  pass."    And  uttering  this 
the  king 

Made  at  the  man  :  then  Modred  smote 
his  liege 

Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a 

heathen  sword 
Had  beaten  thin  ;  while  Arthur  at  one 

blow. 

Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he 
fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle 
roll'd 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter 
sea ; 

Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by 
man. 

Hall  f all'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  the"" 
lord, 

King  Arthur.  Then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 
And  bore  him  to  .  a  chapel  nigh  the 

field, 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren 
land  : 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was 
full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

**The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous 
knights 

Whereof  this  world  holds  record.  Sucli 


THE  PASSING 

They  sleep—the  men  I  loved.  I  think 
that  we 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 
deeds, 

Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the 
halls 

Of  Came  lot,  as  in  the  days  that  were- 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,— 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 
again 

To  rule  once  more  ;  but  let  what  will 
be,  be. 

I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till 
morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excali- 
bur. 

Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  remem- 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon, 

an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
ful. 

Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd 
across 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 
king  ; 

And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle 
mere  : 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly 
bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere  : 

It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 
thus, 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the 
helm— 

A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded 
man ; 

Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring 
thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 
stept. 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 
tombs. 

Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 
men, 


OF  ARTHUR.  447 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea- 
wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill  with  flakes  of  foam.  He, 
stepping  down 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed 
rock. 

Came  on  tne  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Ex- 
calibur, 

And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter 
moon. 

Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 
ran  forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against 
the  hilt  : 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 
sparks,' 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth- 
work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.   He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he 
stood. 

This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift 
mind, 

In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it 
seem'd 

Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags. 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 
marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere  : 

"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission 

which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  has  seen  ?  or  what  liast 

heard  ?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
verc  : 

'*I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds, 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the 
crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 
and  pale : 

"Thou  hast  betray 'd  thy  nature  and 

thy  name. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  be- 
seem'd 

Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 


448 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR, 


For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either 
hand, 

Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to 
lie. 

Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go 
again, 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 
thing 

I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring 
me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second 
time 

Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 
mere, 

Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in 
thought ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the 
hilt, 

How  curiously  and  strangely  chased, 
he  smote 

His  palms  together,  and   he  cried 
aloud  : 

And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand 
away, 

Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy 
note. 

Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the 
earth, 

Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 

many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone?  Deep  harm  to 

disobey, 

Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king 
demand 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  ? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 
he  does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty 
breath 

And  rumors  of  a  doubt?  But  were 
this  kept. 

Stored   in   some    treasure-house  of 

mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms. 

Saying,  *  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excali- 
bur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 
Lake. 


Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  ifn 

the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 

aftertime 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own 

conceit. 

And  hid  Exca  bur  the  second  time. 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 
heavily  : 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what 
hast  heard  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the 
crag. 

And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the 
reeds."  " 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 
in  wrath  : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !   Woe  is 
me ! 

Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.   I  see  thee  what 
thou  art. 

For  thou,  the  latesWeft  of  all  my 
knigUts 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  pre- 
cious hilt  ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  May  prosper,  get 

thee  hence  : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my 
hands. 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and 
ran. 

And  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 
plunged 

Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it. 

The  great  brand  ^ 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR, 


449 


Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 
moon, 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern 

morn. 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 
shock 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern 
sea. 

So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an 
arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won 
derful, 

And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing 
thicker  breath : 
*'  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is 
done. 

Speak  out  :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 
or  seen  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere  : 

"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 
the  gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never 
saw, 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I 
die. 

Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal 
men, 

So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him, 

wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an 

arm, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in 

the  mere." 

And   answer   made  King  Arthur, 

breathing  hard  : 
My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't  is  time  that  I 
were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive 
my  weight. 


And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  f  ear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  1  shall 
die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he 
half  rose. 

Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue 
eyes 

As  in  a  picture.    Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words  ; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee, 

O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  lan- 
guid hands, 

And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 
tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted 
hard, 

Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his 
bed 

When  all  the  house  is  mute.  So  sigh'd 
the  King, 

Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear 

Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 
to  ridge, 

Cloth'd  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as 

he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 

Before.   His  own  thought  drove  him 

like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy 

caves 

And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 
right 

The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that 

rang 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 
heels — 

And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter 
moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a 
dusky  barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to 
stern, 


460 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Beneatli  them ;  and  descending  they 

were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with 

stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,    black-hooded,    like  a 

dream — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold : 

and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  and  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no 

one  comes^ 
Or  hath  come;  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,    Place  me 

in  the  barge  ;  " 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.  There 

those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the 

King,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them 

all 

And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands, 
And  caird  him  by  his  name,  complain- 
ing loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his 
brow 

Striped  w;th  dark  blood  :  for  all  his 

face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd 

moon 

Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  spring- 
ing east  : 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous 

curls— 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising 
sun 

High    from    the    dais-throne — were 

parch'd  with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging 

loose, 

Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the 

King  ; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance 
in  rest, 

Prom  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tourna- 
ment, 


Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 
charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 

"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall 
Igo? 

Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and 

my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead, 

When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 
chance, 

And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 
knight. 

Such  times  have  been  not  since  the 
light  that  led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dis- 
solved 

Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty 
world 

And  I,  the  iast,  go  forth  companion- 
less. 

And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and 
the  years, 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 
minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from 
•»       the  barge  : 

f'  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding 
>-         place  to  new. 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt 

the  world. 
Comfort  thyself  :  what  comfort  is  in 

me  ?  . 
I  have  lived  my  fofe,  and  that  which 

I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  ! 

but  thou. 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face 
again. 

Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are 
wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.  Where- 
fore, let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 
day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  oi 


That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the 
brain, 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  SWAINS  TON. 


451 


If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands 
of  prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who 

call  them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every 

way 

Bound  hy  gold  chains  about  the  feet 

of  God.  J 
But  now  farewell.   I  am  going  a  long 

way 

With  these  thou  seest— if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 

doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any 

snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;  but  it 
lies 

Deep-meadow'd,   happy,   fair  with 

orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows   crown'd  with 

summer  sea. 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 

wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar 
and  sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her 
death. 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn. 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died 
away. 

At  length  he  groan'd,  and  turning 

slowly  clomb 
The  last  hardf  ootstep  of  that  iron  crag 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving 

yet  and  cried, 
**  He  passes  to  be  king  among  the  dead 
And  after    healing  of  his  grievous 

wound 

He  comes  again  ;  but — if  he  come  no 
more — 

O  me,  be  you  dark  Queens  in  yon  black 
boat, 

Who  shriek'd  and  wail'd,  the  three 
whereat  we  gazed 


On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with 

living  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence, 

friends 

Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 
need  ?  " 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  ther 

came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one 

voice 

Around  a  king  returning  from  his 
wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about, 
and  clomb 
E'en  to  the  highest  he  could  climb, and 
saw, 

Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of 
hand, 

Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare 
the  king, 

Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the 
deep 

Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on,  and  on, 
and  go 

From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the 
new  year. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  SWAINSTONe 

Nightingales  warbled  without. 
Within  was  weeping  for  thee  : 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men 
Walk'd  in  the  walks  with  me. 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men,  and  thou 
wast  one  of  the  three. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods  : 
The  Master  was  far  away  : 
Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 
Of  a  passion  that  lasts  but  a  day  : 
Still  in  the  house  in  his  coffin  the  Prince 

of  courtesy  lay- 
Two  dead  men  have  I  known 
In  courtesy  like  to  thee  : 
Two  dead  men  have  I  loved 
With  a  love  that  ever  will  be  : 
Three  dead  men  have  I  loved,  and  thou 

art  last  of  the  three. 


TO  THE  QUEEN, 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  over  summit  and  lawn, 
The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 
Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones  of 
dawn  ! 

All  night  have  I  heard  the  voice 
Rave  over  the  rocky  bar, 
But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven, 
Above  thee  glided  the  star. 

Hast  thou  no  voice,  O  Peak, 
That  standest  high  above  all  ? 

I  am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 
I  roar  and  rave  for  I  fall. 

**  A  thousand  voices  go 
To  North,  South,  East  and  West, 
They  leave  the  heights  and  are  trou- 
bled, 

And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 

"  The  fields  are  fair  beside  them. 
The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom  ; 
But  they — they  leel  the  desire  of  the 

deep- 
Fall,  and  follow  their  doom. 

*'  The  deep  has  power  on  the  height, 
And  the  height  has  power  on  the  deep; 
They  are  raised  for  ever  and  ever. 
And'  sink  again  into  sleep." 

Not  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 

But  when  their  cycle  is  o'er, 

The  valley,  the  voice,  the  peak,  the  star, 

Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 

The  Peak  is  high  and  fiush'd 
At  his  highest  with  sunrise  fire  : 
The  peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are  high, 
And  the  thought  of  a  man  is  higher. 

A  voice  below  the  voice, 
And  a  height  beyond  the  height ! 
Our  healing  is  not  hearing, 
And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  into  heaven  withdrawn, 
The  lone  glow  and  the  long  roar 
Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones 
of  dawn ! 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

EPILOGUE  TO  THE  IDYLS. 

O  LOYAL  to  the  royal  in  thyself, 
And  loyal  to  thy  land,  as  this  to  thee— 
Bear  witness,  that  rememberable  da;y. 
When,  pale  as  yet,  and  fever-worn,  the 
Prince 

Who  scarce  had  pluck' d  his  flickering 
life  again 

From  half-way  down  the  shadow  of  the 
grave. 

Past  with  thee  thro'  thy  people  and 

their  love, 
And  London  roll'd  one  tide  of  joy  thro' 

all 

Her  trebled  millions,  and  loud  leagues 
of  man 

And  welcome  !  witness,  too,  the  silent 
cry, 

The  prayer  of  many  a  race  and  creed, 

and  clime — 
Thunderless  lightnings  striking  under 

sea 

From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy 
realm. 

And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  late- 
ly heard 

A  strain  to  shame  us  "  keep  you  to 

yourselves  : 
So  loyal  is  too  costly !  friends — your 

love 

Is  but  a  burden  :  loose  the  bond,  and 
go." 

Is  this  the  tone  of  empire  ?  here  the 
faith 

That  made  us  rulers  ?  this,  indeed,  her 
voice 

And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hou- 
goumont 

Left  mightiest  of  all  peoples  under 
heaven  ? 

What  shock  has  fool'd  her  since,  that 

she  should  speak 
So  feebly  ?  wealthier — wealthier — hour 

by  hour ! 

The  voice  of  Britain,  or  a  sinking  land. 
Some  third-rate  isle  half-lost  among 

her  seas  ? 
There  rang  her  voice,  when  the  full 

city  peal'd 
Thee  and  thy  Prince!  The  loyal  to  their 

crown 

Are  loyal  to  their  own  far  sons,  who 
love 


A  WELCOME  TO  THE  DUKE  AND  DUCHESS  OF  EDINBURGH 


Our  ocean-empire  with  her  boundless 
homes  ,      ,  , 

For  ever-broadening  England,  and  her 
throne 

In  our  vast  Orient,and  one  isle,  one  isle. 
That  knows  not  her  own  greatness  :  it 

she  knows 
And  dreads  it  we  are  fall'n.  But 

thou,  my  Queen, 
Not  for  itself,  but  thro'  thy  living  love 
For  one  to  whom  I  made  it  o'er  his 

Sacred,^ accept  this  old  imperfect  tale, 
New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war 
with  Soul 

Rather  than  that  gray  king,  whose 

name,  a  ghost 
Streams  like  a  cloud,  man-shaped,  from 

mountain  peak, 
And  cleaves  to  cairn  and  cromlech 

still  :  or  him  „ 
Of  Geoffrey's  book,  or  him  of  Malleor  s, 

one  ,  - 

Touch' d  by  the  adulterous  linger  of  a 

time 

That  hover' d  between  war  and  wanton- 
ness, 

And  crownings  and  dethronements  : 

take  withal 
The  poet's  blessing,  and  his  trust  that 

Heaven 

Will  blow  the  tempest  in  the  distance 
back 

From  thine  and  ours  :  for  some  r  r  sa- 
cred, who  mark, 
Or  wiselv  or  unwisely,  signs  of  storm, 
Waverings  of  every  vane  with  every 
wind, 

And  wordy  trucklings  to  the  transient 
hour, 

And  fierce  or  careless  looseners  of  the 

faith,  ^  .  ^ 

And  Softness  breeding  scorn  of  simple 

life, 

Or  Cowardice,  the  child  of  lust  for 
gold, 

Or  Labor,  with  a  groan  andnot  a  voice, 
Or  Art,  with  poisonous  honey  stol'n 

from  France, 
And  that  which  knows,  but  careful  for 

itself, 

And  that  which  knows  not,  ruling  that 

which  knows 
To  its  own  harm :  the  goal  of  this  great 

world 


453 

Lies  beyond  sight :  yet— if  our  slowly- 
grown 

And  crown'd  Republic's  crowning  com- 
mon-sense, 
That  saved  her  many  times,  not  f  ail— 

their  fears 
Are  morning  shadows  huger  than  the 


That  "cast  them,  not  those  gloomier 

which  fo]-ego  , 
The  darkness  of  that  battle  m  the  West, 
Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies  away. 


A  WELCOME  TO  THE  DUKE  AND 
DUCHESS  OF  EDINBURGH. 

March,  1874. 

I. 

The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove 
for  power— 
Whose  will  is  lord  thro'  all  his  world- 
domain— 
Who  made  the  serf  a  man,  and  burst 
his  chain—  , 
Has  given  our  Prince  his  own  ImperiaJ 
Flower, 

Alexandrovua- 
And  welcome,  Russian  flower,  a  peo- 
ple's pride, 
To  Britain,  when  her  flower?  begin 
to  blow  !  ^  ^ 

From  love  to  love,  from  home  to  home 
you  go, 

From   mother  unto  mother,  stately 
bride, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 
II. 

The  golden  news  along  the  steppes  is 
blown, 

And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents 

are  stirred : 
Elburz  and  all  the  Caucasus  have 
heard ;  ,        ^  , 

And  all  the  sultry  palms  of  India 
known, 

Alexandrovna. 
The  voice  of  our  universal  sea. 
On  capes  of  Afric  as  on  cliffs  of 

Kent,  ,     .  ^  ^ 

The  Maoris  and  that  Isle  of  Conti- 
nent, 


464  A  WELCOME  TO  THE  DUKE  AND  DUCHESS  OF  EDINBURGH. 


And  loyal  pines  of  Canada  murmur 
thee, 

Marie-Alexandrovna. 


Fair  empires  branching,  both,  in  lusty- 
life  !- 

Yet  Harold's  England  fell  to  Norman 
swords  : 

Yet  thine  own  land  has  bow'd  to 
Tartar  hordes 
Since  English  Harold  gave  its  throne  a 
wife, 

Alexandrovna. 
For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs 
that  swing, 
And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  and 
flow ; 

But  who  love  best  have  best  the 
grace  to  know 
That  Love  by  right  divine  is  deathless 
king, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 


As  thou  with  thy  young  lover  hand  in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 
So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  West, 
Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious  to 

thy  poor  : 
Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  nar- 
row door ; 
Here,  also,  Marie,  shall  thy  name  b« 
blest, 

Marie-Alexandrovna  ! 


Shall  fears  and  jealous  hatreds  flame 
again? 

Or  at  thy  coming,  Princess,  every- 
where, 

The  blue  heaven  break,  and  some 
diviner  air 
Breathe  thro'  the  world  and  change 
the  hearts  of  men, 

Alexandrovna  ? 
But  hearts  that  change  not,  love  that 
cannot  cease. 
And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace  of  soal 
And  Love  has  led  thee  to  the  stranger  in  soul ! 

land.  And  howsoever  this  wide  world  may 

Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly  roll, 

say  their  say  : —  1  Bcriwwu  f-^ir  peoples  truth  and  maua- 

See,  empire  upon  empire  smiles  to-  j  ful  "peace, 

day,  Alfred— AlexandroTji* ! 


Queen  Maky. 


455 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


Queen  Mary. 

Philip,  King  of  Naples  and  Sicily,  af- 

•  terwards  King  of  Spain. 
The  Princess  Elizabeth. 
Reginald  Pole,  Cardinal  and  Papal  Le- 
gate. 

Simon  Renard,  Spanish  Ambassadm\ 
Le  Sieur  de  Noailles,  French  Ambassa- 
dor. 

Thomas  Cranmer,  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury. 

Sir  Nicholas  Heath,  Archbishop  of 
York  ;  Lord  Chancellor  after  Gard- 
iner. 

Edward  Courtenay,  Earl  of  Devon. 

Lord  William  Howard,  afterwards 
Lord  Howard  and  Lord  High  Ad- 
miral. 

Lord  Williams  of  Thame. 
Lord  Paget. 
Lord  Petre. 

Stephen  Gardiner,  Bl'ihop  of  Winches- 
ter and  Lord  Chancellor. 
Edmund  Bonner,  Bishop  of  London, 
Thomas  Thirlby,  Bishop  of  Ely. 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,     /  Insurrectionary 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  f  leaders. 
Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 
Sir  Robert  Southwell. 
Sir  Henry  Redingfield. 


Sir  William  Cecil. 

Sir  Thomas  White,  Lord  Mayor  of 
London. 

The  Duke  of  Alva,     )    Attending  on 

The  Count  de  Feria,  j"  Philip. 

Peter  Martyr. 

Father  Cole. 

Father  Bourne. 

Villa  Garcia. 

Soto. 

Peters,  Gentleman  of  Lord  Howard. 
Roger,  Servant  to  Noailles. 
William,  Servant  to  Wyatt. 
Steward  of  Household  to  the  Princess 
Old  Nokes  and  Nokes.  (Elizabeth. 
Marchioness    of   Exeter,    Jfother  of 

Courtenay. 
Lady  Clarence,  )    Ladies  in 

Lady  Magdalen  Dacres,  >■  waiting  to 
Alice,  1    the  Queen. 

Maid  of  Honor  to  the  Princess  Eliza- 


Tib'^'  Country  Wives. 


[beth. 


Lords  and  other  Attendants,  Members 
of  the  Privy  Council,  Members  of 
Parliament,  two  Gentlemen,  Al- 
dermen, Citizens,  Peasants,  Ush- 
ers, Messengers, Guards,  Pages, &c. 


ACT  L 

Scene  I. — Aldgate  richly  decorated. 
Crowd.  Marshalmen. 

Marsha/man.  Stand  back,  keep  a 
clear  lane.  When  will  her  Majesty 
pass,  sayst  thou  ?  why  now,  even  now ; 
wherefore  draw  back  your  heads  and 
your  horns  before  I  break  them,  and 
make  what  noise  you  will  with  your 
tongues,  so  it  be  not  treason.  Long 
live  Queen  Mary,  the  lawful  and  legiti- 
mate daughter  of  Harry  the  Eighth. 
Shout,  knaves  ! 

Citizens.    Long  live  Queen  Mary! 

1  at.  That's  a  hard  word,  legiti- 
mate ;  what  does  it  mean  ? 

2  at.    It  means  a  bastard. 

3  at.    Nay,  it  means  true-born. 


1  at.  Why,  didn't  the  Parliament 
make  her  a  bastard  ?  [beth. 

2  at.    No;  it  was  the  Lady  Eliza- 

3  at.  That  v/as  after,  man  ;  that 
was  after, 

1  at.    Then  which  is  the  bastard  ? 

2  at.  Troth,  they  be  both  bastards 
by  Act  of  Parliament  and  Council. 

3  at.  Ay,  the  Parliament  can  make 
every  true-born  man  of  us  a  bastard. 
Old  Nokes,  can't  it  make  thee  a  bas- 
tard ?  thou  shouldst  know,  for  thou 
art  as  white  as  three  Christmasses. 

O.  Nokes  (dreamily).    Who's  a-pas- 
sing  ?   King  Edward  or  King  Richard  ? 
3  at.  No,  old  Nokes. 
O.  Nokes.    It's  Harry  ! 
3  at.    It's  Queen  Mary. 


4r6 


QUE  EX 


MARY. 


Act! 


O.  Nokes.  The  blessed  Mary's  a  pas- 
sing !  [Falls  on  his  knees. 

Nokes.  Let  father  alone,  my  mas 
ters  !  he's  past  your  questioning, 

3  at.  Answer  thou  for  him,  then  ! 
thou  art  no  such  cockerel  thyself,  for 
thou  was  born  i'  the  tail  end  of  old 
Harry  the  Seventh. 

Nokes.  Eh!  that  was  before  bastard- 
making  began.  I  was  born  true  man 
at  five  in  the  forenoon  i'  the  tail  of 
old  Harry,  and  so  they  can't  make 
me  a  bastard. 

3  at.  But  if  Parliament  can  make 
the  Queen  a  bastard,  why,  it  follows 
all  the  more  that  they  can  make  thee 
one,  who  are  fray'd  i'  the  knees,  and 
out  at  elbow,  and  bald  o'  the  back, 
and  bursten  at  the  toes,  and  down  at 
heels. 

Nokes.  I  was  born  of  a  true  man 
and  a  ring'd  wife,  and  I  can't  argue 
upon  it;  but  I  and  my  old  woman  'ud 
burn  upon  it,  that  would  we. 

Marshahuan.  What  are  you  cack- 
ling of  bastardy  under  the  Queen's 
own  nose?  I'll  have  you  flogg'd  and 
burnt  too,  by  the  Rood  I  will. 

1  at.  He  swears  by  the  Rood. 
Whew! 

2  at.    Hark!  the  trumpets. 

[The  procession  pas.ses,  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  i-idimj  ^ide  by  side., 
and  disappears  under  the  gate. 
Citizens.     Long  live  Queen  Mary! 
down  with  all  traitors  !    God  save 
Her  Grace ;  and  death  to  Northumber- 
land !  [Exeunt. 
Manent  Two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  By  God's  light  a  noble  crea- 
ture, right  royal. 

2  Gent.  She  looks  comelier  than 
ordinary  to-day;  but  to  my  mind  the 
Lady  Elizabeth  is  the  more  noble  and 
royal. 

1  Gent.  I  mean  the  lady  Eliza- 
beth. Did  you  hear  (I  have  a  daugh- 
ter in  her  service  who  reported  it) 
that  she  met  the  Queen  at  W^anstead 
with  five  hundred  horse,  and  the 
Queen  (tho'  some  say  they  be  much 
divided)  took  her  hand,  call'd  her 
sweet  sister,  and  kiss'd  not  her  alone, 
but  all  the  ladies  of  her  following.  I 

2  Gent.    Ay,  that  was  in  her  hour  of  I 


joy,  there  will  be  plenty  to  s  mder 
and  unsister  them  again;  this  Gar- 
diner for  one,  who  is  to  be  made  Lord 
Chancellor,  and  will  pounce  like  a 
wild  beast  out  of  his  cage  to  worry 
Cranmer. 

1  Gent.  And  furthermore,  my 
daughter  said  that  when  there  rosea 
talk  of  the  late  rebellion,  she  spoke 
even  of  Northumberland  pitifully, 
and  of  the  good  Lady  Jane  as  a  poor  " 
innocent  child  who  had  but  obeyed 
her  father;  and  furthermore,  she  said 
that  no  one  in  her  time  should-.be 
burnt  for  heresy.  [rimes. 

2  Gent.    Well,  sir,  I  look  for  happy 

1  Gent.  There  is  but  one  thing 
against  them.  I  know  not  if  you 
know. 

2  Gent.  I  suppose  you  touch  upon 
the  rumor  that  Charles,  the  master 
of  the  world,  has  offer'd  her  his  son 
Philip,  the  Pope  and  the  Devil.  I  tru«t 
it  is  but  a  rumor. 

1.  Gent.  She  is  going  now  to  the 
Tower  to  loose  the  prisoners  there, 
and  among  t^iem  Court^av.  tohe 
made  Earl  of  U(j'Von,  ori'OyarWo^  or* 

and  f^ll  her  people  wish  Yi^^Mrem^YY . 

May  It  be  so,  for  we^  are  many  of  us  " 
Catholics,  but  few  Papists,  and  the 
Hot  Gospellers  will  go  mad  upon  it. 

2  Geyit.  Was  she  not  betroth'd 
in  her  b.ibyhood  to  the  Great  Em- 
peror himself. 

1  Genf.    Ay,  but  he's  too  old. 

2  Gent.  And  again  to  her  cousin 
Reginald  Pole,  now  Cardinal,  but  I 
hear  that  l^e  too  is  full  of  aches  and 
broken  before  his  day. 

1  Gent.  O,  the  Pope  CO  Id  dispense 
with  his  Cardinalate,  and  his  achage, 
and  his  breakage,  if  that  were  all:  but 
will  you  not  follow  the  procession  ? 

2  Genf.     No  ;  I  have  seen  enough 
for  this  day. 

1  Gent.  Well.  I  shall  follow  ;  if  I 
can  get  near  enough  I  shall  judge 
with  my  own  eyes  whether  Her  Grace 
incline  to  this  splendid  scion  of  Plan- 
tagenet.  [Exeunt. 
Scene  II. — A  room  in  Lambeth  Palace. 

Cran.  To  Strasburg,  Antwerp, 
Frankfort,  Zurich,  Worms^ 


Scene  2 


QUESy  MARY. 


^•57 


Geneva,    Basle— our   bishops  from 

Or  fled,  they  say,  or  flying—Poinet, 
Barlo^^-, 

Bale,  Gcory,  Coverdale  ;  besides  the 
Deans  LyVeils 

Of  Christchurch,  Durham,  Exeter  and 
/Ailmer  and  Bullingham.  and  hundreds 
'      more ;  ,  „  , 

So  they  report:  I  shall  be  left  alone. 

No-  Hooper,  Ridley,  Latimer  will  not 

fly- 

Enter  Peter  Martyr. 
Mart.    Fly  Cranmer  !  were  there 
nothing  else,  your  name 
Stands  first  of  those  who  signed  the 
Letters  Patent  [Jane. 
That  gave  her  royal  crown  to  Lady 
C  an.  Stand  first  it  may,  but  it  was 
written  last:  [cil,  sign  d 

Those  that  are  now  her  Privy  Coun- 
Before  me  :  nay,  the  judges  had  pro- 
nounced ,      .  .  .  , 
That  our  young  Edward  might  be- 
queath the  crown  LWiiL 
Of  England,  putting  by  his  father  s 
Yet  I  stood  out,  till  Edward  sent  for 
me.  ^^^^^ 
The  wan  boy-king,  with  his  fast-fading 
Pixt  hard  on  mine,  his  frail,  transpa- 
rent hand,              [griping  mine 
Damp  with  the  sweat  of  death,  and 
Whispered  me,  if  I  loved  him  not  to 
yield  [wolf 
His  Church  of  England  to  the  Papal 
And  Mary  ;  then  I  could  no  more— 1 

sign'd.  .  ^ 

Nay  for  bare  shame  of  inconsistency. 
She  cannot  pass  her  traitor  council 
To  make  me  headless.  Iby, 

Mart        That  might  be  forgiven. 
I  tell  you,  fly,  my  Lord.    You  do  not 
own  -r-i    I.    •  4- 

The  bodily  presence  in  the  Euchari>it, 
Their  wafer  and  perpetual  sacrifice: 
Your  creed  will  be  your  death. 

Cran  Step  after  step, 

Thro  many  voices  crying  right  and 
left,  [church 
Havel  climb'd  back  into  the  primal 
And  stand  within  the  r  orch  and 
Christ  with  me  :  [faith. 
My  flight  were  such  a  scandal  to  the 
The  downfall  of  so  many  simple  souls, 
I  dare  not  leave  my  post. 


Mart.  But  you  divorced 

Queen  Catfclarine   and   her  father ; 

hence,  her  hate 
Will  burn  till  you  are  burn'd. 

Cran.  I  cannot  help  it. 

The  Canonists  and  Schoolmen  were 
with  me. 

"Thou  Shalt  not  wed  thy  brother  s 

wife.  '— 'Tis  written, 
"They  shall  be  childless.  '  True, 

Mary  was  born,  [a  bride 

But  France  would  not  accept  her  for 
As  being  born  from  incest  ;  and  this 

wrought  [you  know, 

Upon  the  king;  and  child  by  child. 
Were   momentary  sparkles  out  as 

quick  [his  doubts 

Almost  as  kindled;  and  he  brought 
And  fears  to  me.    Peter,  I'll  swear  for 

him 

He  did  believe  the  bond  incestuous. 
But  wherefore  am  I  trenching  on  the 
time  [steps  a  mile 

That  should  already  have  seen  your 
From  me  and  Lambeth  ?    God  be 
with  you  !  Go. 
Mart.    Ah,  but  how  fierce  a  letter 
you  wrote  again-t  [you 
Their  superstition  when  they  slandr'd 
For  setting  up  a  mass  at  Canterbury. 
To  please  the  Queen. 

Cran.  It  was  a  wheedling  monk 
Set  up  the  mass. 

Mart.         I  know  it,  my  good  Lord. 
But  yo  1  so  bubbled  over  with  hot 
terms  ^.  .   •  ^ 

Of  Satan,  liars,blasphemy,Antichrist, 
She  never  will  forgive  you.    Fly,  ray 
Lord,  fly!  [power  to  burn  ! 

Cran.    I  wrote  it,  and  God  grant  me 
Mart.    They  have  given  me  a  safe 
conduct  :  for  all  that 
I  dare  not  stay,  I  fear,  I  fear,  I  see  you, 
Dear  friend,  for  the  last  time  ;  fare- 
well, f-nd  fly. 
Cran.    Fly  and  farewell,  and  let  me 
die  the  death.  [Ex.  Peter  Martyr. 
Enter  Old  Servant. 
O  Serv.    O,  kind  and  gentle  master, 
the  Queen's  Officers  [Tower. 
Are  here  in  force  to  take  you  to  the 
Cran.     Ay,   gentle   friend,  admit 
them.    I  will  go. 
I  thank  my  God  it  is  too  late  to  fly. 

[Exeunt, 


QVEEN  MARY. 


Scene  HI. — St.  Paul's  Cross. 

Father  Bourne  in  the  Fulpit.  A 
croud.  Marchioness  of  Exeter, 
Courtenay.  The  Sieurde  Noail- 
les  and  his  man  Roger  in  front 
of  the  stage.  Huhhuh. 

Noail.  Hast  thou  let  lall  those 
papers  in  the  palace  ? 

Rog.    Ay,  sir. 

Noail.      There  will  be  no  peace  for 
Mary  till  Elizabeth  lose  her  head." 
Rog.    Ay,  sir. 

Noail.  And  the  other.  "  Long  live 
Elizabeth  the  Queen." 

Rog.  Ay,  sir;  she  needs  must  tread 
upon  them. 

Noail.  Well. 
These  beastly  swine  make   such  a 
grunting  here,  [saying. 
I  cannot  catch  what  father  Bourne  is 

Rog.  Quiet  a  moment,  my  masters; 
hear  what  the  shaveling  has  to  say 
for  himself. 

Crowd.    Hush— hear. 

Bourne.  — an  l  so  this  unhappy  land, 
long  divided  in  itself,  and  severed 
from  the  faith,  will  return  into  the 
one  true  fold,  seeing  that  our  gracious 
Virgin  Queen  hath— 

Croud.    No  pope!  no  pope! 

Roger  (to  those  about  him,  7)iimicking 
Bourne).  — hath  sent  for  the  holy 
legate  of  the  holy  father  the  Pope, 
Cardinal  Pole,  to  give  us  all  that  holy 
absolution  which — 

1  at.    Old  Bourne  to  the  life ! 

4  at.  Holy  absolution!  holy  In- 
quisition! 

3  at.    Down  with  the  Papist. 

[Hnhhuh. 

Bom^ne.  — and  now  that  your  good 
bishop,  Bonner,  who  hath  lain  so  long 
under  bonds  for  the  faith —  [Hubbub. 

Noail.    Friend  Roger,  steal  thou  in 
among  the  crowd, 
And  get  the  swine  to  shout  Elizabeth. 
Yon  gray  old  Gospeller,  sour  as  mid- 
winter. 
Begin  with  him. 

Rog.  (goes)  By  the  mass,  old  friend, 
we'li  have  no  pope  here  while  the 
Lady  Elizabeth  lives. 

Gospeller  Art  thou  of  the  true  faith 
fellow,  that  swearest  by  the  mass  ? 

Rog .    Ay,  that  ami,  new  converted, 


Act  1 

but  the  old  leaven  sticks  to  my  tongue 
yet. 

1  at.  He  says  right;  by  the  mass 
we'll  have  no  mass  here. 

Voices  of  the  Croud.  Peace  !  hear 
him  ;  let  his  own  words  damn  the 
Papist.  From  thine  own  mouth  I 
judge  thee — tear  him  down. 

Bourne.   — and   since  our  Gracious 

ueen,  let  me  call   her  our  second 

irgin  Mary,  hath  begun,  to  re-edify 
the  true  temple — 

1  at.  Virgin  Mary  !  we'll  have  no 
virgins  here — we'll  have  the  Lady 
Elizabeth! 

[Stvords  are  drawn,  a  knife  is 
hurled,  and  sticks  in  the  pulpit. 
The  mob  throng  to  the  pulpit 
stairs. 

M.  of  Ex.    Son  Courtenay,  wilt  thou 
see  the  holy  father 
iNIurder'd  before  thy  face?  up,  son, 

and  save  him! 
They  love  thee,  and  thou  canst  not 
come  to  harm. 
Court,  (in  thepulpit).  Shame,  shame, 
my  masters!  are  you  English-born, 
And    set   yourselves   by  hundreds 
against  one  ? 
Crowd.   A  Courtenay  !  a  Courtenay  I 
[.4  train  of  Spanish  servants  cross- 
es at  the  back  of  the  stage. 
Noail.    These  birds  of  passage  come 
before  their  time:  [there. 
Stave  off  the  crowd  upon  the  Spaniard 
Rog.     My  masters,  yonder's  fatter 
game  for  you  [you  there— 

Than  this  old  gaping  gurgoyle:  look 
The  Prince  of  Spain  coming  to  wed  our 
Queen!  [the  city. 

After  him,  boys!  and  pelt  him  from 
[They   seize  stones   and  follow  the 
Spaniards.    Exeunt  on  the  other 
side  Marchioness  of  Exeter  and 
Attendan' s. 
Noail  (to  Roger.)   Stand  from  me. 
If  Elizabeth  lose  her  head— 
Thnt  makes  for  France. 
And  if  her  people,  anger'd  thereupon, 
Arise  against  her  and  dethrone  the 

Queen— 
That  makes  for  France. 
And  if  I  breed  confusion  anyway— 
That  makes  for  France. 

Good  day,  my  Lord  of  Devon; 


Scene  4 


QUEEN  MARY. 


that 


A  bold  heart  yours  to '  beard 
raging  mob ! 
Court.    My  mother  said,  Go  up ;  and 
up  I  went.  [wrong, 
I  knew  they  would  not   do  me  any 
For  I  am  mighty  popular  with  them, 
Noailles. 
Noail.    You  looked  a  king. 
Court.     Why  not  ?  I  am  king's  blood. 
Noail.    And  in  the  world  of  change 

may  come  to  be  one. 
Court.  Ah! 

Noail.      But   does   your  gracious 

Queen  entreat  you  king-like? 
Court.    'Fore  God,  I  think  she  en- 
treats me  like  a  child. 
Noail.     You've  but  a  dull  life  in  this 
maiden  court, 
I  fear,  my  Lord. 

Court.        A  life  of  nods  and  yawns. 
Noail.    So  you  would  honor  my  poor 
house  to-night,  [fellows. 
We  might  enliven  you.    Divers  honest 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk  lately  freed  from 
prison, 

Sir  Peter  Carew  and  Sir  Thomas Wyatt, 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  and  some  more 

Court.  At  what?     [—we  play. 

Noail.         The  Game  of  Chess. 

Court.  The  Game  of  Chess ! 

I  can  play  well,  and  I  shall  beat  you 

Noail.    Ay,  but  we  play  with  Henry, 
King  of  France, 
And  certain  of  his  court. 
His  Highness  makes  his  moves  across 
the  channel,  [are  messengers 

We  answt»r  hira  with  ours,  and  there 
That  go  betweei)  us. 

Court.    Why,  such  a  game,  sir,  were 

whole  years  a  playing. 
Noail.    Nay;   not  so  long  I  trust. 
That  all  depends  [players. 
Upon  the  skill  and  swiftness  of  the 
Court.    The  King  is  skilful  at  it  ? 
Noail.  Very,  my  Lord. 

Court.    And  the  stakes  high  ? 
Noail.    But  not  beyond  your  means. 
Court.    Well,  I'm  the  first  of  players. 

I  s  all  win.  [company. 
Noail.    With  our  advice  and  in  our 
And  so  you  well  attend  to  the  king's 
I  think  you  may.  [moves. 
Court.        When  do  you  meet  ? 
Noail.  To  night. 


459 
che 


Court,  {asidfi).    I  will  be  there; 
fellow's  at  his  tricks— 
7)eep— I  shall  fathom  him.  (Aloud.) 
Good  morning,  Noailles. 

[Exit  Courtenay. 
Noail.  Good-day,  my  Lord.  Strange 
game  of  chess !  a  King 
That  with    her   own   pawns  plays 
against  a  Queen,  [King 
Whose  play  is  all  to  find  herself  a 
Ay;  but  this  fine  blue-blooded  Court- 
enay seems  [Knight, 
Too  princely  for  a  pawn.    Call  him  a 
That,  with  an  ass's  not  a  horse's  head, 
Skips  every  way,  from  levity  or  from 
fear. 

Well,  we  shall  use  him  somehow,  so 
that  Gardiner  [game 
And  Simon  Renard  spy  not  out  our 
Too  early.    Roger,  thinkest  thou  that 

any  one 
Suspected  thee  to  be  my  man? 
Rog.  Not  one,  sir. 

Noail.  No!  the  disguise  was  per- 
fect.   Let's  away!  [Exemit. 

Scene  IV.— London.  A  Room  in  the 
Palace.  Elizabeth.  Enter  Court- 
enay. 

Court.    So  yet  am  I,  [me 
Unless  my  friends  and  mirrors  lie  to 
A  goodlier-looking  fellow  than  this 
Philip. 

Pah!  [traitor? 
The  Queen  is  ill  advised:  shall  I  turn 
They've  almost  talk'd  me  into:  yet 

the  word  [one 
Affrights  me  somewhat;  to  be  such  a 
As  Harry  Bolingbroke  hath  a  lure  in 

it.  [your  age, 

Good  now,  my  Lady  Queen,  tho'  by 
And  by  your  looks  you  are  not  worth 

the  having. 
Yet  by  your  crown  you  are. 

\Seeing  Elizabeth. 
The  Piincess  there? 
If  I  tried  her  and  la— she's  amorous. 
Have  we  not  heard  of  her  in  Edward's 

time,  [Lord  Admiral  ? 

Her  freaks  and  frolics  with  the  Icte 
I  do  believe  she'd  yield.    I  should 

be  still  [knows— 
A  party  in  the  state;  and  then,  who 
Eli.\    What  are  you  musing  on,  my 

Lord  of  Devon  ? 


•<60 

Court.  Has  not  the  Queen — 
Eliz.  Done  what,  Sir? 

Court.  — Made  you  follow 

The  Lady  Suffolk  and  the  Lady  Len- 
You,  [nox. 
The  heir  presumptive.  [it. 
Eliz.    Why  do  you  ask?  you  know 
Court.      You  needs  must  bear  it 
hardly. 

Eliz.  No,  indeed! 

I  am  utterly  submissive  to  the  Queen 
Court.    Well,  I  was  musing  upon 
that;  the  Queen         [be  friends. 
Is  both  ray  foe  and  yours;  we  should 
Eliz.  My  Lord,  the  hatred  of  anoth- 
er to  us 
Is  no  true  bond  of  friendship. 

Court.  Might  it  not 

Be  the  rough  preface  of  some  closer 
bond? 

Elis.   My  Lord,  you  late  were  loosed 
from  out  the  Tower, 
Where,  like  a  butterfly  in  a  chrysalis. 
You  spent  your  life;  that  broken,  out 
you  flutter  [would  settle 

Thro'  the  new  world,  go  zigzag,  now 
Upon  this  flower,  now  that;  but  all 
things  here  [ed 
At  court  are  known;  you  have  solicit- 
The  Queen,  and  been  rejected. 

Court.  Flower,  she! 

Half  faded!  but  you,  cousin,  are  fresh 
and  sweet  [tried. 
As  the  first  flower  no  bee  has  ever 
Eliz.    Are  you  the  bee  to  try  me  ? 
why,  but  now 
I  called  you  butterfly. 

Court.  You  did  me  wrong, 

I  love  not  to  be  called  a  butterfly: 
Why  do  you  call  me  butterfly  ? 
Eliz.    Why  do  you  go  so  gay  then  ? 
Court.  Velvet  and  gold. 

This  dress  was  made  me  as  the  Earl 
of  Devon  [right  royal? 

To  take   my  seat  in;   looks  it  not 
Eliz.    So  royal  that  the  Queen  for- 
bade your  wearing  it. 
Court.    I  wear  it  then  to  spite  her. 
Eliz.  My  Lord,  my  Lord; 

I  see  you  in  the  Tower  again.  Her 
majesty 

Hears  you  affect  the  Prince-  prel- 
ates kneel  to  you. — 
Court.    I  am  th    noblest  blood  in 
Europe,  Madam, 


Acti 

A  Courtenay  of  Devon,  and  her  cous- 
i       in.  • 

I    Eliz.     She  hears  you  make  your 
j       boast  that  after  all 
I  She  means  to  wed  you.    Folly,  my 
good  Lord.  [the  state 

Court.  How  folly?  a  great  party  in 
Wills  me  to  wed  her. 

Eliz.  Failing  her,  my  Lord, 

Doth  not  as  great  a  party  in  the 
Will  you  to  wed  me?  [state 
Court.  Even  so,  fair  lady. 

Eliz.    You  know  to  flatter  ladies. 
Court.  Nay,  I  meant 

True  matters  of  the  heart. 

Eliz.  My  heart,  my  Lord, 

Is  no  great  party  in  the  state  as  yet. 
Couft.    Great,  said  you?  nay,  you 
shall  be  great.    I  love  you, 
Lay  my  life  in  your  hands.    Can  you 
be  close  ? 
Eliz    Can  you,  my  Lord  ? 
Court.       Close  as  a  miser  s  casket. 
Listen :  [b  assador. 

The  King  of  France,  Noailles  the  Am- 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk  and  Sir  Peter 
Carew,  [others. 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  I  myself,  some 
Have  sworn  this  Spanish  marriage 
shall  not  be.  [jecture — 

If  Mary  will  not  hear  us — well — con- 
Were  I  in  Devon  with  my  wedded 
bride,  [ear; 
The  people  there  so  worship  me-— Your 
You  shall  be  Queen. 

Eliz.  You  speak  too  low,  my  Lord  ; 
I  cannot  hear  you. 

Court.  I'll  repeat  it. 

Eliz.  No! 
Stand  farther  off,  or  you  may  lose 
your  head.  [sweet  sake. 

Court.  1  have  a  head  to  lose  for  your 
Eliz.    Have  you,  my  Lord  ?  Best 
keep  it  for  \  our  own. 
Nay,  pout  not,  cousin.  [indeed 
Not  many  friends  are  mine,  except 
Among  the  many.     I  believe  you 
mine;  [well. 
And  so  you  may  continue  mine,  tare- 
And  that  at  once, 

Enter  Mary  behind. 
Mary.  Whispering  — leagued 

together 
To  bar  me  from  my  Philip. 

Court.  Pray— consider— 


QUEEX  MARY. 


Scene  4 


QUEEN  MARY. 


EUz.    (seeinrr   the   Queen).  Well, 
that's  a  noble  horse  of  yours,  my 
Lord.  [day, 
I  trust  that  he  will  carry  you  well  to- 
And  heal  your  headache. 
Court.  You  are  wild  ;  what 

headache? 
Heartache,  perchance;  not  headache. 
EUz  (aside  to  Courtenay).  Are 

you  blind? 
[Courtenay  sees  the  Queen  and  exit. 

Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Lord  William  Howard. 
How.    Was  that  my  Lord  of  Devon? 

do  not  you  [Devon. 
Be  seen  in  corners  with  my  Lord  of 
He  hath  fallen  out  of  favor  with  the 

Queen.  [and  him 

She  fears  the  Lords  may  side  with  you 
Against  her  marriage  ;  therefore  is 

he  dangerous,  [come 
And  if  this  Prince  of  fluff  and  feather 
To  woo  you,  niece,  he  is  dan<:erous 

every  way. 
EUz.   Not  very  dangerous  that  way, 

my  good  uncle.         [danger  here. 
IIov).    But  your  state   is  full  of 
The  disaffected,  heretics,  reformers, 
Look  to  you  as  the  one  to  crown  their 

ends.  [you; 
Mix  not  yourself  with  any  plot  I  pray 
Nay,  if  by  chance  you  hear  of  any 

such. 

Speak  not  thereof— no,  not  to  your 

best  friend,  [it.  Still— 

Lest  you  should  be  confounded  with 
Perinde   ac   cadaver — as  the  priest 

says,  [dead  body. 

You  know  your  Latin — quiet  as  a 
What  was  my  Lord  of  Devon  telling 

you?  [or  nor, 

EUz.  Whether  he  told  me  any  thing 
I  follow  your  good  counsel,  gracious 

uncle. 
Quiet  as  a  dead  body. 

I/ow.  You  do  right  well. 

I  do  not  care  to  know;  but  this  I 

charge  you,  [Chancellor 
Tell  Courtenay  nothing.  The  Lord 
(I  count  it  as  a  kind  of  virtue  in  him, 
He  hath  not  many),  as  h.  mastiff  dog 
May  love  a  puppy  cur  for  no  more 

reason  [up  together. 

Than  that  the  twa^n  have  been  tied 


Thus  Gardiner — for  the  two  were  fel- 
low-prisoners 
So    many    years   in    yon  accursed 
Tower —  [to  it,  niece, 

Hath  taken  to  this  Courtenay.  Look 
He  hath  no  fence  when   Ga;  diner 
questions  him;  [know  him 

All  oozes  out;  yet  him — because  they 
The  last  White  Rose,  the  last  Planta- 
genet  [people 
(Nay,  there  is  Cardinal  Pole,  too),  the 
Claim  as  their  natural  leader  —  ay, 
some  say,  [King  belike. 

That  you  shall  marry  him,  make  him 
EUz.  Do  they  say  so,  good  uncle  ? 
How.  Ay,  good  niece  ! 

You  should  be  plain  and  open  with 

me,  niece. 
You  should  not  play  upon  me. 

EUz.  No,  good  uncle. 

•  Enter  Gard.    The  Queen  would  see 
your  Grace  upon  the  moment. 
EUz.    Why,  my  lord  Bishop  ? 
Gard.    I  think  she  means  to  counsel 
your  withdrawing  [house. 
To  Ashridge,  or  some  other  country 
EUz.    Why,  my  lord  Bishop? 
G'lrd.   I  do  but  bring  the  message, 
know  no  more. 
Your  Grace  will  hear  her  reasons 
from  herself.      [before  the  word 
EUz.    'Tis  mine  own  wish  fulfilFd 
Was  spoken,  for  in  truth  I  had  meant 
to  crave 

Permission  of  her  Highness  to  retire 
To  Ashridge,  and  pursue  my  studies 

there.  [before  the  word 

Gard.  Madam,  to  have  the  ish 
Is  man's  good  Fairy — and  the  Queen 

is  yours. 

I  left  her  with  rich  jewels  in  her  hand. 
Whereof  'tis  like  enough  she  means 
to  make 

A  farewell  present  to  your  Grace. 

EUz.  My  Lord, 

I  have  the  jewel  of  a  loyal  heart 

Gard.    I  doubt  it  not,  Madam,  most 
loyal.  \_Bows  low  and  exit. 

ffoic.  See, 
This  comes  of  parleying  with  my  Lord 
of  Devon.  [self 
Well,  well,  you  must  obey  ;  and  I  my- 
Believe  it  will  be  better  for  your  wel- 
Your  time  will  come.  [fare. 

EUz.        I  thiijt  my  time  will  come. 


Uncle, 

I  am  of  sovereign  nature,  that  I  know. 
Not  to  be  queird  ;  and  I  have  felt 

within  me  [G-od's  just  hour 

Stirrings  of  some  great  doom  when 
Peals — but  this  fierce  old  Gardiner — 

his  big  baldness, 
That  irritable  forelock  which  he  rubs. 
His  buzzard  beak  and  deep-incavern'd 
Half  fright  me.  [eyes 
How.    You've  a  bold  heart  ;  keep  it 

so.  [turn  traitor  ; 

He  cannot  touch  you  save  that  you 
And  so  take  heed  I  pray  you — you  are 

one  [you,  niece. 

Who  love  that  men  should  smile  upon 
They'd  smile  you  into  treason — some 

of  them .  [smiling  sea. 

EUz.  I  spy  the  rock  beneath  the 
But  if  this  Philip,  the  proud  Catholic 

prince,  [hates  me,  seek 

And  this  bald  priest  and  she  that 
In  that  lone  house,  to  practise  on  my 
By  poison,  fire,  shot,  stab —  [life. 
Flow.  They  will  not,  niece. 

Mine  is  the  fleet  and  all  the  power  at 

sea— 

Or  w  11  be  in  a  moment.  If  they  dared 
To  harm  you,  I  would  blow  this  Philip 
and  all  [devil. 
Your  trouble  to  the  dogstar  and  the 
Eliz.    To  the  Pleiads,  uncle  ;  they 

have  lost  a  sister. 
How.    But  why  say  that  ?  what  have 
you  done  to  lose  her  ?  [Queen, 
Come,  come,  I  wiil  go  with  you  to  the 
[Exeunt. 

Scene  V. — A  Room  in  the  Palace.  Ma- 
ry with  Philip's  winidture.  Alice. 
Mary  (kissing  the  miniature).  Most 

goodly,  kinglike,  and  an  emperor's 

son, — 

A  king  to  Vje, — is  he  not  noble,  girl  ? 

Alice.    Goodly  enough,  your  Grace, 
and  yet,  methinks, 
I  have  seen  goodlier. 

Mary.  Ay;  some  waxen  doll 

Thy  baby  eyes  have  rested  on,  belike; 
All  red  and  whi  e,  the  fashion  of  our 
land.  [her  S'  ul)  [ 

But  my  good  mother  came  (God  rest  | 
Of  Spain,  and  I  am  Spanish  in  myself,  j 
And  in  my  likings.  i 

Alice.  By  your  Grace's  leave  ! 


Act  1 

Your  royal  mother  came  of  Spain,  but 

took  [royal  father 

To  the  English  red  and  white.  Your 
(For  so  they  say)  was  all  pure  lily  and 
In  his  youth,  and  like  a  lady.  [rose 

3/ary.  O,  jus:  God  ! 

Sweet  mother,  you  had  time  and 

cause  enough 
To  sicken  of  his  lilies  and  his  roses. 
Cast  off,  betray'd,  defamed,  divorced, 

forlorn  !  [forgiveness. 
And  then  the  king — that  traitor  past 
The  false  archbishop  fawning  on  him, 

married 

The  mother  of  Elizabeth — a  heretic 
Ev'n  as  she  is  ;  but  God  hath  sent  me 
here 

To  take  such  order  with  all  ix<iretics 
That  it  shall  be,  before  I  die,  as  tho' 
My  father  and  my  brother  had  not 

lived.  [Jane, 
What  wast  thou  saying  of  this  Lady 
Now  in  the  Tower  ? 
Alice.    Why,     Madam,     she  was 

passing  [her 
Some  chapel  down  in  Essex,  and  with 
Lady  Anne  Wharton,  and  the  Lady 

Anne  [stood  up 

Bow'd  to  the  Pyx  ;  but  Lady  Jane 
Stiff  as  the  very  backbone  of  heresy. 
And  wherefore  bow  ye  not,  says  La'^y 

Anne,  [and  Earth  ;* 

To  him  within  there  who  made  Heaven 
I  can  not,  and  I  dare  not,  tell  youi 
What  Lady  Jane  replied.  [Grace 
Mary.  But  I  will  have  it. 

Alice.    She  said— pray  pardon  me, 

and  pity  her— 
She  hath  harken'd  evil  counsel — ah  ! 
The  baker  made  him.  [she  said, 

Mary.  Monstrous!  blasphemous! 
She  ought  to  burn .    Hence,  thou  (exit 

Alice).  No — being  traitor  [a  child. 
Her  head  will  tall:  shall  it?  she  is  but 
We  do  not  ki  1  the  child  for  doing  that 
His  father  whipt  him  into  doing — a 

head  [that  mine 

So  full  of  grace  and  beauty!  would 
Were  half  as  gracious!  O,  My  lord  to 
My  love,  for  thy  sake  only.  [be, 
I  am  eleven  years  older  than  he  is. 
But  w  11  he  care  for  that? 
No  by  the  holy  Virgin,  being  noble, 
But  love  me  onl)  :  then  the  bastard 

sprout, 


QCEE.Y  MARY. 


Scene  5 

My  sister,  is  far  fairer  than  myself. 
Will  he  be  drawn  to  her? 
No,being  of  the  true  faith  with  myself. 
Paget  is  for  him — for  to  wed  with 

Spain  [against  ijim; 

Would  treble  England — Gardiner  is 
The     Council,    people,  Parliament 

against  him;  [hated  me; 

But  I  will  have  him!  My  hard  father 
My  brother  rather  hated  me  than 

loved;  [Virgin, 
My  sister  cowers  and  hates  me.  Holy 
Plead  with  thy  blessed  Son;  grant  me 

my  prayer;  [lead 
Give  me  ruy  Philip;  and  we  two  will 
The  living  waters  of  the  Faith  again 
Back  thro'   their  widow'd  channel 

here,  and  watch  [of  old, 

The  parch'd  banks  rolling  incense,  as 
To  heaven,  and  kindled  with  the  palms 

of  Christ! 

Enter  Usher. 
"Who  waits,  sir?  [lor. 
Usher.    Madam,  the  Lord  Chancel- 
Mary.     Bid  him  come  in  (Enter 
Gardiner.)      Good-morning,  my 
good  Lord.  [Exit  Usher. 

Gard.    That  every  morning  of  your 
Majesty 

May  be  most  good,  is  every  morning's 

prayer  [Gardiner. 
Of  your  most  loyal  subject,  Stephen 
Mary.    Come  you  to  tell  me  this, 

my  Lord  ? 
Gard.  And  more. 

Your  people  have  begun  to  learn  your 

worth.  [debts. 
Your  pious  wish  to  pay  King  Edward's 
Your  lavish  household  curb'd,  and 

the  remission  [people, 
Of  half  that  subsidy  levied  on  the 
Make  all  tongues  praise  and  all  hearts 

beat  for  you. 
I'd  have  you  yet  more  loved  :  the 

realm  is  poor,  [withdraw 
The  exchequer  at  neap-ebb  :  we  might 
Part  of  our  garrison  at  Calais. 

Mary.  Calais  ! 

Our  one  point  on  the  main,  the  gate  of 

France  ! 

I  am  Queen  of  England  ;  take  mine 

eyes,  mine  heart, 
But  do  not  lose  me  Calais. 
Gard.  Do  not  fear  it. 


463 

Of  that  hereafter.    I  say  your  Grace 
is  loved.  [your  friend 

That  I  may  keep  you  thus,  who  am 
And  ever  faithful  counsellor,  might  I 
speak  ? 

Mar-y.    I  can  forespeak  your  speak- 
ing.   Would  I  marry 
Prince  Philip,  if  all  England  hate  him? 

That  is  [another: 
Your  question,  and  I  front  it  with 
Is  it  England,  or  a  party  ?   Now,  your 
answer  [my  dress 

Gard.  My  answer  is,  I  wear  beneath 
A  shirt  of  mail  :  my  house  hath  been 
assaulted,  [lace, 
And  when  I  walk  abroad,  the  popu- 
With  fingers  pointed  like  so  many 
daggers,  [Philip ; 

Stab  me  in  fancy,  hissing  Spain  and 
Aud  when  I  sleep,  a  hundred  men-at- 
arms 

Guard  my  poor  dreams  for  England-. 

Men  would  murder  me. 
Because  they  think  me  favorer  of  this 

marriage. 
Mary.    And  that  were  hard  upon 

you,  my  Lord  Chancellor,  [von— 
Gard.  But  our  young  Earl  of  De- 
Mary.  Earl  of  Devon  ? 

I  freed  him  from  the  tower,  placed 

him  at  Court;  [fool — 

I  made  him  Earl  of  Devon,  and — the 
He  wrecks  his  health  and  wealth  on 

courtesans,  [dog. 
And  rolls  himself  in  carrion  like  a 
Gard.    More  like  a  school-boy  that 

hath  broken  bounds, 
Sickening  himself  with  sweets. 

Mary.  I  will  not  hear  of  him. 

Good,  then,  they  will  revolt  ;  but  I 
And  shall  cpntrol  them,    [am  Tudor, 
Gard.         I  will  help  you,  Madam, 
Even  to  the  utmost.    All  the  church 

is  grateful.  [pulpited 
Y'ou  have  ousted  the  mock  priest,  re- 
The  shepherd  of  St.  Peter,  raised  the 

rood  again. 
And  brought  us  back  the  mass.  I  am 

all  thanks  [well, 
To  God  and  to  your  Grace :  yet  I  know 
Your  people,  and  I  go  with  them  so 

far,  [here  to  play 

Will  brook  nor  Pope  nor  Spaniard 
The  tyrant,  or  in  commonwealth  or 

church. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


464 

Mary  {showing  the  picture).  Is  this 
the  face  of  one  who  plays  the 
tyrant  ?  [gentle  ? 

Peruse  it  ;  is  it  not  goodly,  ay,  and 
Gard.     Madam,  methinks  a  cold 
face  and  a  haughty. 
And  when  your  Highness  talks  of 
Courtenay—  [life 
Ay,  true — a  goodly  one.    I  would  his 
Were  half  as  goodly  (aside). 
Mary.        What  is  that  you  mutter? 
Gitrd.    Oh,  Madam,  take  it  bluntly; 
marry  Philip, 
And  be  stepmother  of  a  score  of  sons ! 
The  prince  is  known  in  Spain,  in 

Flanders,  ha  ! 
For  Philip— 
Mary.  You  offend  us  ;  you 

may  leave  us. 
You  see  thro'  warping  glasses. 

Gard.  If  your  M  jesty— 

Mary.    1  have  sworn  upon  the  body 
and  blood  of  Christ 
I'll  none  but  Philip. 

Gard.  Hath  your  Grace  so  sworn? 
Mary.  Ay,  Simon  Renard  knows  it. 
Gard.  News  to  me  ! 

It  then  remains  for  your  poor  Gar- 
diner, [what  less 
So  you  still  care  to  trust  him  some- 
Than  Simon  Renard,  to  compose  the 
event                        [your  Grace. 
In  some  such  form  as  least  may  harm 
Mary.    I'll  have  the  scandal  sound- 
ed to  the  mud. 
I  know  it  a  scandal. 

Gard.  All  my  hope  is  now 

It  may  be  found  a  scandal. 
Mary.  You  offend  us. 

Gard.  {a^ide).    These  princes  are 
like  children,  must  be  physick'd, 
The  bitter  in  the  sweet.  I  have  lost 
mine  office,  [fool. 
It  may  be,  thro'  mine  honesty,  like  a 
[Ed'it. 

Enter  Usher. 

Mary.    Who  waits  ? 

Ut^her.        The  Ambassador  from 

France,  your  Grace. 
Mary.     Bid  him  come  in.  Good 

morning,  Sir  de  Noailles. 

[Eacit  Usher. 
Noail.  {entering).  A  happy  morning 

to  your  majesty. 


Act  1 

Mary.    And  I  should  some  time 
have  a  happy  morning  ; 
I  have  had  none  yet.    What  says  the 
King  your  master  ? 
Noail.    Madam,  my  master  hears 
with  much  alarm,  [Spain — 

That  you  may  marry  Philip,  Prince  of 
Foreseeing,  with  whate'er  unwilling- 
ness. 

That  if  this  Philip  be  the  titular  king 
Of  England,  and  at  war  with  him, 
your  Grace  [war, 
And  kingdom  will  be  suck'd  into  the 
Ay,  tho'  you  long  for  peace  ;  where- 
fore, my  master,  [will, 
If  but  to  prove  your  Majesty's  good 
Would  fain  have  some  fresh  treaty 
drawn  between  you. 
Mary.     Why  some  fresh  treaty  ? 
wherefore  should  I  do  it  ? 
Sir,  if  we  marry,  we  shall  still  main- 
tain 

All  former  treaties  with  his  Majesty. 
Our  royal  word  for  that!  and  your 

good  master,  [break  them. 

Fray  God  he  do  not  be  the  first  to 
Must  be  content  with  that;  and  so, 

farewell. 

Noail.  (going.,  returufi).  I  would 
your  answer  had  been  other,  Madam, 
For  I  foresee  dark  days. 

Mary.  And  so  do  I,  sir; 

Your  master  works  against  me  in  the 
dark. 

I  do  believe  he  holp  Northumberland 
Against  me.  [Grace. 

Noail.  N.ay,  pure  fantasy,  your 
Why  should  he  move  against  you? 

Mary.  Will  you  hear  why? 

Mary  of  Scotland,— for  I  have  not 
own'd 

My  sister,  and  I  will  not, — after  me 
Is  heir  of  England;  and  my  royal 
father,  [with  ours. 

To  make  the  crown  of  Scotland  one 
Had  mark'd  her  for  my  brother  Ed- 
ward's bride;  [from  Scotland 
Ay,  but  your  king  stole  her  a  babe 
In  order  to  betroth  her  to  your 
Dauphin. 

See  then:  [Dauphin, 
Mary  of  Scotland,  married  to  your 
Would  make  our  England,  France; 
Mary  of  England,  joining  hands  with 
Spain, 


QUEEN  M AMY. 


Scene  5 

Would  be  too  strong  for  France.  j 
Yea,  were  there  issue  born  to  her, 

Spain  and  we,  I 
One  crown,  might  rule   the  world. 

There  lies  your  fear. 
That  is  your  drift.    You  play  at  hide 

and  seek. 
Show  me  your  faces! 

Noail.  Madam,  I  am  amazed:  j 

French,  I  must  needs  wish  all  good 
things  for  France.  [protest 
That  must  be  pardon'd  me;  but  I 
Your  Grace's  policy  hath  a  farther 
flight  [seek 
Than  mine  into  the  future.    We  but 
Some  settled  ground  for  peace  to 
stand  upon. 
Mary.    Well,  we  will  leave  all  this, 
sir,  to  our  council. 
Have  you  seen  Philip  ever? 
Noail.  Only  once. 

Mary.    Is  this  like  Philip? 
Noail.  Ay,  but  nobler-looking. 

Mary.    Hath  he  the  large  ability  of 

the  Emperor? 
Noail.    No,  surely.  [thee, 
Mary.       I  can  make  allowance  for 
Thou  speakest  of  the  enemy  of  thy 
king.  [naked  truth. 

Noail.    Make  no  allowance  for  the 
He  is  every  way  a  lesser  man  than 
Charles ;  [ing  in  him. 

Stone-hard,  ice-cold — no  dash  of  dar- 
Mary.  If  cold,  his  life  is  pure. 
Noail.  Why  {smiling),  no,  indeed. 
Mary.  Saystthou?  [{smiling). 
Noail.  A  very  wanton  life  indeed 
Mary.  Your  audience  is  concluded, 
sir.  {Exit  Noailles. 

You  cannot 

Learn  a  man's  nature  from  his  natu- 
ral foe. 

Enter  Usher. 

Who  waits? 

Usher.      The  ambassador  of  Spain, 
your  Grace.  [Exit. 
Enter  Simon  Renard. 
Mary.    Thou    art    ever  welcome, 
Simon  Renard.    Hast  thou 
Brought  me  the  letter  which  thine 

Emperor  promised 
Long  since,  a  formal  offer  of  the  hand 
Of  Philip  ?  [reach'd  me . 

Ren.    Nay,  your  Grace,  it  hath  not  \ 
30 


m 

[  I  know  not  ^-herefore — some  mis- 
chance of  fiood, 
I  And  broken  bridge,  or  spavin'd  horse, 
I       or  wave  [have  written. 

And  wind  at  their  old  battle;  he  must 
Mary.    But  Philip  never  writes  me^ 
one  poor  word,  [wealth. 
Which  in  his  absence  had  been  all  my 
j  Strange  in  a  wooer  ! 

Ren.  Yet  I  know  the  Prince, 

So  your  king-parliament  suffer  him  to 
land,  [shore. 
Yearns  to  set  foot  upon  your  island 
Mary.     God   change    the  pebble 
which  his  kingly  foot  [stone 
First  presses  into  some  more  costly 
Than  ever  blinded  eye.    I'll  have  one 
mark  it  [firelike; 
And  bring  it  me.  I'll  have  it  burnish'd 
I'll  set  it  round  with  gold,  with  pearl, 

with  diamond. 
Let  the  great  angel  of  the  church 

come  with  him  ; 
Stand  on  the  deck  and  spread  his 

win^s  for  sail  ! 
God  lay  ttie  waves  and  strew  the 
storms  at  sea,  [O  Renard, 

And  here  at  land  among  the  people. 
I  am  much  beset,  I  am  almost  in  des- 
pair [ours; 
Paget  is  ours.  Gardiner  perchance  is 
But  for  our  heretic  Parliament — 

Ren.  O  Madam, 

You  fly  your  th  Dughts  like  kites.  My 
Master,  Charles,  [here, 
Bade  you  go  softly  with  your  heretics 
Until  your  throne  had  ceased  to  trem- 
ble.   Then  [Besides, 
Spit  them  like  larks  for  aught  I  care. 
When  Henry  broke  the  carcass  of 
your  church  [among  you 

To  pieces,  there  were  many  wolves 
Who  dragged  the  scatter'd  limbs  into 
their  den.  [render  these; 

The  Pope  would  have  you  make  them 
So  would  your  cousin.  Cardinal  Pole ; 
i       ill  counsel!  [not  yet 

These  let  them  keep  at  present;  stir 
This  matter  of  the  church  lands.  At 

his  coming 
Your  star  will  rise, 

Mary.      My  star!  a  baleful  one. 
I  see  but  the  black  night,  and  hear  the 
wolf. 
I  What  star? 


QUEEN  MARY. 


466 


QUEEN- 


MARY. 


Actl 


Ren.  Your  star  will  be  your 

princely  son,  [lands  ! 

Heir  of  this  England  and  the  Nether- 
And  if  your  wolf  the  while  should 
how  5  for  more.  [gold. 
We  11  dust  him  from  a  bag  of  Spanish 
I  do  believe,  I  have  dusted  some  al- 
ready, [ours. 
That,  soon  or  late,  your  parliament  is 
Mary.    Why  do  they  talk  so  foully 
of  your  Prince, 
Renard? 

Ren.  The  lot  of  princes.  To 
Is  to  be  lied  about.  [sit  high 

Mary.  They  call  him  cold, 

Haughty,  ay,  worse. 

Ren.    Why,  doubtless,  Philip  shows 
Some  of  the  bearing  of  your  blue 
blood — still  [comes  Lim. 

All  within  measure — nay,  it  well  be- 
Mary.    Hath  he  the  large  ability  of 

his  father? 
Ren.    Nay,  some  believe  that  he 

will  go  beyond  him, 
Mary.    Is  this  like  him? 
Ren.  Ay,  somewhat;  but  your 

Philip  [the  sun. 

Is  the  most  princelike  Prince  beneath 
This  is  a  daub  to  Philip. 
Mary.  Of  a  pure  life? 

Ren.    As  an  angel  among  angels. 
Yea,  by  Heaven,  ["Whosoever 
The  text — Your  Highness  knows  it. 
Looketh  after  a  woman,"  would  not 
graze  [in  him  there. 

The  Prince  of  Spain.    You  are  happy 
Chaste  as  your  grace! 
Mary .     "  I  am  happy  in  him  there. 
Ren.    And  would'be  altogether  hap- 
py, madam,  [to  closer. 
So  that  your  sister  were  but  look'd 
You  have  sent  her  from  the  court, 
but  then  she  goes,  [gales, 
I  warrant,  not  to  hear  the  nightin- 
But  hatch  you  some  new  treason  in 
the  woods. 
Mary.    We  have  our  spies  abroad 
to  catch  her  tripping. 
And  then  if  caught,  to  the  Tower. 

Ren.  The  Tower!  the  block. 

The  word  has  turn'd  your  Highness 
pale;  the  thing  [er's  time. 

Was  no  such  scarecrow  in  your  fath- 
I  have  heard,  the  tongue  yet  quivered 
with  the  jest 


When  the  head  leapt — so  common!  I 
do  think 

To  save  your  crown  that  it  must  come 
to  this.  [people  love  her, 

Mary.    I  love  her  not,  but  all  the 

And  would  not  have  her  even  to  the 
Tower. 

Ren.    Not  yet  ;  but  your  old  Trai- 
tors of  the  Tower — 
Why,  when  you  put  Northumberland 
to  death,  [them  all, 

The  sentence  having  passed  upon 
Spared  you  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  Guil- 
ford Dudley, 
Ev'n  that  young  girl  who  dared  to 
wear  your  crown? 
Mary.    Dared,  no,  not  that;  the 
child  obey'd  her  father. 
Spite  of  her  tears  her  father  forced 
it  on  her.  > 
Ren.      Good   Madam,    when  the 
Roman  wish'd  to  reign. 
He  slew  not  him  alone  who  wore  the 
purple,  [chance 
But  his  assessor  in  the  throne,  per- 
A  child  more  innocent  than  Lady 
Jane.  [Roman  Emperor. 

Mary.    I  am  English  Queen,  not 
Ren.     Yet  too  much  mercy  is  a 
want  of  mercy,  [fir©,  or  this 

And  wastes  more  life.    Stamp  out  the 
Will  smoulder  and  re  flame,  and  burn 
the  throne  [will  not  come 

Where  you  should  sit  with  Philip:  he 
Till  she  be  gone. 

Mary    Indeed,  if  that  were  true — 
But  I  must  say  farewell.    I  am  some- 
what faint  [not  Queen 
With  our  long  talk.  Tho'  Queen,  I  am 
Of  mine  own  heart,  which  every  now 
and  then              [golden  chain- 
Beats  me  half  dead:  yet  stay,  this 
My  father  on  a  birthday  gave  it  me. 
And  I  have  broken  with  my  father — 
take 

And  wear  it  as  memorial  of  a  morning 
Which    found   me   full   of  foolish 

,  doubts,  and  leaves  me 
As  hopeful.  [all  follies 

Ren.  (aside).  Whew— -the  folly  of 
Is  to  be  love-sick  for  a  shadow. 

(Aloud)  Madam,  [with  gold. 

This  chains  me  to  your  service,  not 
But  dearest  links  of  love.  Farewell, 

and  trust  mo. 


Scene  6 

Philip  is  yours.  [Exit. 
Mary,    Mine — but  not  yet  all  mine. 

Enter  Usher. 
Mary.    Your  Council  is  in  Session, 

please  your  Majesty. 
Usher.    Sir,  let  them  sit.    I  must 
have  time  to  breathe. 
No,  say  I  come.    (Exit  Vsher.)   I  won 

by  boldness  once. 
The  Emperor  counselPd  me  to  fly  to 
Flanders.  [rode, 
I  would  not;  but  a  hundred  miles  I 
Sent  out  my  letters,  caird  my  friends 

together. 
Struck  home  and  won. 
And  when   the  Council  would  not 
crown  me — thought  [keep, 
To  bind  me  first  by  oaths  I  could  not 
And  keep  with  Christ  and  conscience 

was  it  boldness 
Or  weakness  that  won  there?  when 
I  their  Queen,  [fore  them. 

Cast  myself  down  upon  my  knees  be- 
And  those  hard  men  brake  into  wom- 
an tears,  [that  passion 
Ev'n  Gardiner,  all  amazed,  and  in 
Gave  me  my  Crown. 

Enter  Alice. 
Girl;  hast  thou  ever  heard 
Slanders  against  Prince  Philip  in  our 
Court?  [Grace;  no,  never. 

Alice.     What   slanders?    I,  your 
Mary.  Nothing? 
Alice.    Never,  your  Grace. 
Mary.    See  that  you  neither  hear 

them  nor  repeat! 
Alice  (aside).    Good, Lord!  but  I 
have  heard  a  thousand  such. 
Ay,  and  repeated  them  as  often- 
mum!  [again? 
Why  comes  that  old  fox-Fleming  back 
Enter  Reiiard. 
Ren.     Madam,  I  scarce  had  left 
your  Grace's  presence  [ger 
Before  I  chanced  upon  the  messen- 
Who  brings  that  letter  which  we 
waited  for —  [hand. 
The  formal  offer  of  Prince  Philip's 
It  craves  an  instant  answer,  Ay  or 
No?  [Council  sits. 

Mary.    An  instant,  Ay  or  No!  the 

rive  it  me  quick. 
Alice  (stepping  before  her).  Your 
Highness  is  all  trembling. 


467 

Mary.   Make  way. 

[Exit  into  the  Council  Chamber. 
Alice.    O,  Master  Renard,  Master 
Renard,  [Prince; 
If  you  have  falsely  painted  your  fine 
Praised,  where    you    should  have 

blamed  him,  I  pray  God 
No  woman  ever  ,  loved  you,  Master 
Renard.  [at  night 

It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  her  moan 
As  tho'  the  nightmare  never  left  her 
bed.  [did  you  ever 

Ren.    My  pretty  maiden,  tell  me, 
Sigh  for  a  beard  ? 
Alice.  That' s  not  a  pretty  question. 
Ren.    Not  prettily  put?    I  mean, 
my  pretty  maiden,  [en. 
A  pretty  man  for  such  a  pretty  maid- 
Alice.     My  Lord  of  Devon  is  a 
pretty  man,  [then? 
I  hate  him.    Well,  but  if  I  have,  what 
Ren.    Then,  pretty  maiden,  you 
should  know  that  whether 
A  wind  be  warm  or  cold,  it  serves  to 
A  kindled  fire.  [fan 
Alice.  According  to  the  song. 

His  friends  would  praise  him,  I  be- 
lieved  'em. 
His  foes  would  blame  him.  and  1 
scorned  'em, 
His  friends — 0.9  Angels  I  received  'em. 
His  foes — The  Devil  had  suborn'' d 
'em. 

Ren.  Peace,  pretty  maiden. 
I  hear  them  stirring  in  the  Council 
Chamber.  [and  yet, 

Lord  Paget's  "  Ay "  is  sure— who  else?  . 
They  are  all  too  much  at  odds  to 
close  at  once  [ness  comes. 

In  one  full  throated  No  !   Her  High- 
Enter  Mary. 
Alice.    How  deathly  pale  ! — a  chair, 
your  Highness. 

[Bringing  one  to  the  Queen. 
Ren.  Madam, 
The  Council? 
Mary.      Ay  !  My  Philip  is  all  mine. 
[Sinks  into  chair,  half  fainting. 

ACT  II. 
Scene  L— Allington  Castle. 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt.    I  do  not  hear 
from  Care w  or  the  Duke  [move. 
Of  Suffolk,  and  till  then  I  should  not 


QUEEN  MARY. 


468 

The  Duke  hath  gone  to  Leicester; 

Carew  stirs 
In  Devon:  that  fine  porcelain  Cour- 

tenay,  [in  using, 

Save  that  he  fears  he  might  be  crack'd 
(I  have  known  a  semi-madman  in  my 

time  [too. 
So  fancy-ridd'n)  should  be  in  Devon 

Enter  William. 
News  abroad,  William? 

Will.  None  so  new,  Sir  Thomas,  and 
none  so  old.  Sir  Thomas.  No  new 
news  that  Philip  comes  to  wed  Mary, 
no  old  news  that  all  men  hate  it.  Old 
Sir  Thomas  would  have  hated  it.  The 
bells  are  ringing  at  Maidstone. 
Doesn't  your  worship  hear? 

Wyatt.   Ay,  for  the  Saints  are  come 
to  reign  again.  [no  call 

Most  like  it  is  a  Saint's-day.  There's 
As  yet  for  me ;  so  in  this  pause,  before 
The  mine  be  fired,  it  were  a  pious  work 
To  string  my  father's  sonnets,  left 
about  [order. 
Like  loosely-scatter'd  jewels,  in  fair 
And  head  them  with  a  lamer  rhyme 

of  mine, 
To  grace  his  memory. 

WW.  Ay,  why  not.  Sir  Thomas? 
He  was  a  fine  courtier,  he;  Queen 
Anne  loved  him.  All  the  women 
loved  him.  I  loved  him,  I  was  in 
Spain  with  him.  I  couldn't  eat  in 
Spain,  I  couldn't  sleep  in  Spain.  I 
hate  Spain,  Sir  Thomas. 

Wyatt.    But  thou  couldst  drink  in 
Spain  if  I  remember. 

Will.  Sir  Thomas,  we  may  grant 
the  wine.  Old  Sir  Thomas  always 
granted  the  wine. 

Wyatt.  Hand  me  the  casket  with 
my  father's  sonnets. 

Will.  Ay— sonnets — a  fine  courtier 
of  the  old  Court,  old  Sir  Thomas. 

{Exit. 

Wyatt.    Courtier  of  many  courts, 

lie  loved  the  more 
His  own  gray  towers,  plain  life  and 

lettcr'd  i)eace. 
To  read  and  rhyme  in  solitary  fields. 
The  lark  above,  the  nightingale  below. 
And  answer  them  in  song.    The  Sire 

begets 

Not  half  his  likeness  in  his  son.    I  fail 


Act  "4 

Where  he  was  fullest :  yet — to  write 
it  down.  {He  tcrites. 

Re-enter  William. 
Will.  There  is  news,  there  is  news, 
and  no  call  for  sonnet-sorting  now, 
nor  for  sonnet-making  either,  but  ten 
thousand  men  on  Penenden  Heath  all 
calling  after  your  worship,  and  your 
worship's  name  heard  into  Maidstone 
market,  and  your  worship  the  first 
man  in  Kent  and  Christendom,  for  the 
world's  up,  and  your  worship  a-top  of 
it. 

Wyatt.    Inverted  iEsop — mountain 
out  of  mouse.        [house  knaves. 
Say  for  ten  thousand  ten — and  pot- 
Brain-dizzied  with  a  draught  of  morn- 
ing ale. 

Enter  Antony  Knyvett. 


Will.    Here's  Antony  Knyvett. 
Kny.        Look  you.  Master  Wyatt. 
Tear  up  that  woman's  work  the;  e. 
Wyatt.  No;  not  these. 


Dunib  children  of  my  father,  that  will 
speak 

When  I  and  thou  and  all  rebellious  lie 
Dead  bodies  without  voice  Song  flies 
For  ages.  [you  know 

Knif.    Tut,  your  s<^Mi'-'t's  a  flying 
Wing'd  for  a  moment.  [;int, 
Wt/att.    Well,  for  mine  own  work 

[tearing  the  paper], 
It  lies  there  in  six  pieces  at  your  feet; 
For  all  that  I  can  carry  it  in  my  head. 
Kny.    If  you  can  carry  your  head 

upon  your  shoulders. 
Wyatt.    I  fear  you  come  to  carry  it 

off  my  shoulders, 
And  sonnet-making's  safer. 

Kny.  Why,  good  Lord, 

Write  you  as  many  sonnets  as  you 

will.  [ears,  brains  ? 

Ay,  but  not  now;  what,  have  you  eyes, 
This    Philip    and    the  black-faced 

swarms  of  Spain,  [world, 
The  hardest,  cruellest  people  in  the 
Come  locusting  upon  us,  eat  us  up, 
Conflscate    lands,    goods,   money  — 

Wyatt,  Wyatt,  [come 
Wake,  or  the  stout  old  island  will  be- 
A  rotten  limb  of  Spain.    They  roar 

for  you  [them— more— 

On  Penenden  Heath,  a  thousand  of 
All  arm'd,  waiting  a  l<3ader  ;  there's 

no  glory 


QUEEN  MAE Y. 


Scene  1 


QUEEir  Mary. 


Like  his  who  saves  his  country:  and 
you  sit  [judge, 

Sing-songing  here  ;  but,  if  I'm  any 

By  God,  you  are  as  poor  a  poet,  Wyatt, 

As  a  good  soldier. 

Wyatt.        You  as  poor  a  critic 

As  an  honest  friend:  you  stroke  me 
on  one  cheek,  [Anthony  ! 

Buffet  the  other.   Come,  you  bluster. 

You  know  I  know  all  this.    I  must  not 
move 

Until  I  hear  from  Carew  and  the  Duke. 
I  fear  the  mine  is  fired  before  the  time. 
Kny.  {showing  a  paper).    But  here's 
some  Hebrew.    Faith,  I  half  for- 

fot  it.  [strange  youth 

;  can  you  make  it  English  ?  A 
Suddenly  thrust  it  on  me,  whispered, 
' '  Wyatt,  '  [his  back 

And  whisking  round  a  corner,  show'd 
Before  I  read  his  face. 

Wyatt.    Ha !  Courtenay's  cipher. 

[Reads. 

"  Sir  Peter  Carew  fled  to  France:  It 
is  thought  the  Duke  will  betaken.  I 
am  with  you  still;  but,  for  appear- 
ance'' sake,  stay  with  the  Queen. 
Gardiner  knows,  but  the  Council  are 
all  at  odds,  and  the  Queen  hath  no 
force  for  resistance.  Move,  if  you 
move,  at  once.""  [taken? 
Is  Peter  Carew  fled?  Is  the  Duke 
Down  scabbard,  and  out  sword!  and 

let  Rebellion 
Roar  till  throne  rock,  and  crown  fall. 

No;  not  that;  [reign. 
But  we  will  teach  Queen  Mary  how  to 
Who  are  those  that  shout  below  there  ? 

Kny.  Why,  some  fifty 

That    followed  me  from  Penenden 

Heath  in  hope 
To  hear  you  speak.  [Knyvett;  \ 

Wyatt.  Open  the  window. 

The  mine  is  fired,  and  I  will  speak  to 

them. 

Men  of  Kent;  England  of  England; 
you  that  have  kept  your  old  customs 
upright,  while  all  the  rest  of  England 
bow'd  theirs  to  the  Norman,  the  cause 
that  hath  brought  us  together  is  not 
the  cause  of  a  county  or  a  shire,  but 
of  this  England,  in  whose  crown  our 
Kent  is  the  fairest  jewel.  Philip  shall 
not  wed  Mary;  and  ye  have  called  me 
to  be  your  leader.    I  know  Spain.  I 


have  been  there  with  my  father ;  I 
have  seen  them  in  their  own  land; 
have  marked  the  haughtiness  of  their 
nobles;  the  cruelty  of  their  priests. 
If  this  man  marry  our  Queen,  however 
the  Council  and  the  Commons  may 
fence  round  his  power  with  restrict- 
ion, he  will  be  King,  King  of  Eng  and, 
my  masters;  and  the  Queen,  and  the 
laws,  and  the  people,  his  slaves. 
What?  shall  we  have  Spain  on  the 
throne  and  in  the  parliament;  Spain 
in  the  pulpit  and  on  the  law-bench; 
Spain  in  all  the  great  offices  of  state; 
Spain  in  our  ships,  in  our  forts,  in  our 
hou-es,  in  our  bed  ? 

Croivd.    No  !  no  !  no  Spain. 

Will.  No  Spain  in  our  beds — that 
were  worse  than  all.  I  have  been 
there  with  old  Sir  Thomas,  and  the 
beds  I  know.    I  hate  Spam. 

A  Peasafit.  But,  Sir  Thomas,  must 
we  levy  war  against  the  Queen's 
Grace? 

Wyatt.  No,  my  friend;  war  for  the 
Queen's  Grace — to  save  her  from  her- 
self and  Philip — war  against  Spain, 
And  think  not  we  shall  t  e  alone — 
thousands  will  flock  lo  us.  The 
Council,  the  Court  itself,  is  on  our 
side.  The  Lord  Chancellor  himself 
is  on  our  side.  The  King  of  France  is 
with  us;  the  King  of  Denmark  is  with 
us;  the  world  is  with  us — war  against 
Spain!  And  if  we  move  not  now,  yet 
it  will  be  known  that  we  have  moved; 
and  if  Philip  come  to  be  King,  O,  my 
God!  the  rope,  the  rack,  the  thumb- 
screw, the  stake,  the  fire.  If  we  move 
not  now,  Spain  moves,  bribes  our 
nobles  with  her  gold,  and  creeps, 
creeps  snake-like  about  our  legs  till 
we  cannot  move  at  all;  and  ye  know, 
my  masters,  that  wherever  Spain 
hath  ruled  she  hath  wither'd  all  be- 
neath her.  Look  at  the  New  W'  rid— 
a  paradise  made  hell;  the  red  man, 
that  good  helpless  creature,  starved, 
maim'd,  flogg'd,  flay'd,  burn'd,  boiPd, 
buried  alive,  worried  by  dogs;  and 
)  ere,  nearer  home,  the  Netherlands, 
Sicily,  Naples,  Lombardy.  I  say  no 
more — only  this,  their  lot  is  yours. 
Forward  to  London  with  me!  for- 
waid  to  London  !  If  ye  love  your 


470 


QUEEN 


MARY, 


Act  2 


libert:es  or  your  skins,  forward  to 

London  !  [Wyatt  !  A  Wyatt  ! 

Crowd.    Forward   to   London!  A 
Wyatt.    But  first  to  Rochester,  to 
take  the  guns  [river. 

From  out  the  vessels  lying  in  the 

Then  on, 

A  Peasant.    Ay,  but  I  fear  we  be 

too  few,  Sir  Thomas. 
Wyatt.    Not  many  yet.    The  world 
as  yet,  my  friend,  [tower 
Is  not  half- waked;  but  every  parish 
Shall  clang  and  clash  alarum  as  we 
pass,  [and  fed 

And  pour  along  the  land,  and  swolPn 
With  indraughts  and  side-currents, 

in  full  force 
Roll  upon  London.  [Forward ! 

Crowd.  A  Wyatt  !  a  Wyatt  ! 

Kny.     Wyatt,  shall  we  proclaim 

Elizabeth? 
Wyatt.    I'll  think  upon  it,  Kny  vett. 
Kny.  Or  Lady  Jane  ? 

Wyatt.    No,  poor  soul;  no. 
Ay,  gray  old  castle  of  Allington,  green 
field  [chance 
Beside  the  brimming  Medway,  it  may 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  you 
more. 

Kny.   Come,  now,  you're  sonneting 
again. 

Wyatt.  Not  I. 

I'll  have  my  head  set  higher  in  the 
state;  [stake. 
Or— if  the  Lord  God  will  it — on  the 
[Exeunt. 

Scene  II.— Guildhall.     Sir  Thomas 
White  {the  Lord  Mayot'X  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard,  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall, 
Aldermen  and  Citizens. 
White.    I  trust  the  Queen  comes 

hither  with  her  guards. 
I/ow.    Ay,  all  in  arms. 
[Several  of  the  citizens  move  hastily 
out  of  the  hall. 
Why  do  they  hurry  out  there? 
White.  My  Lord,  cut  out  the  rotten 
from  your  apple,  [go. 
Your  apple  eats  the  better.    Let  them 
They  go  like  those  old  Pharisees  in 
John  [cowards, 
Convicted  by  their  conscience,  arrant 
Or  tamperers  with  that  treason  out 
cf  Kent. 


When  will  her  Grace  be  here? 

Haw.  In  some  few  minutes. 

She  will  address  your  guilds  and 

companies.  [for  her. 

I  have  striven  in  vain  to  raise  a  man 
But  help  her  in  this  exigency,  make 
Your  city  loyal,  and  be  the  mightiest 

man 

This  day  in  England. 

White.  I  am  Thomas  White. 

Few  things  have  fail'd  to  which  I  set 

my  will. 
I  do  my  most  and  best. 

How.  You  know  that  after 

The  Captain  Brett,  who  went  with 

your  train  bands  [to  him 

To  fight  with  Wyatt,  had  gone  over 
With  all  his  men,  the  Queen  in  that 

distress  [traitor, 
Sent  Cornwallis  and  Hastings  to  the 
Feigning  to  treat  with  him  about  her 

marriage- 
Know  too  what  Wyatt  said. 

White.         He'd  sooner  be. 
While  this  same  marriage  question 

was  being  argued. 
Trusted  than  trust — the  scoundrel — 

and  demanded  [Tower. 
Possession  of  her  person  and  the 
IIow.    And  four  of  her  poor  Council 

too,  my  Lord, 
As  hostages.  [say 
White.       I  know  it.    What  do  and 
Your  Council  at  this  hour? 

Hoic.  I  will  trust  you. 

We  fling  ourselves  on  you,  my  Lord. 

The  Council,  [waters; 
The  Parliament  as  well,  are  troubled 
And  yet  like  waters  of  the  fen  they 

know  not  [address. 
Which  way  to  flow.  All  hangs  on  her 
And  upon  you,  Lord  Mayor. 

White.  How  look'd  the  city 

When  now  you  past  it?  Quiet? 

IIow.  Like  our  Council, 

Your  city  is  divided.    As  we  past, 
Some  hail'd,  some  hiss'd  us.  There 

were  citizens  [and  look'd 

Stood  each  before  his  shut-up  booth. 
As  grim  and  grave  as  from  a  funeral. 
And  here  a  knot  of  ruffians  all  in  rags, 
With  execrating  execrable  eyes, 
Glared  at  the  citizen.    Here  was  a 

young  mother,  [blown  back, 

Her  face  on  flame,  her  red  hair  all 


Scene  2 

She  shrilling  "  Wyatt,"  while  the  boy 
she  held        *  [red  as  she 

Mimick'd  and  piped  her  "  Wyatt,"  as 
In  hair  and  cheek;  and  almost  elbow- 
ing her,  [as  death, 
So  close  they  stood,  another,  mute 
And  white  as  her  own  milk;  her  babe 
in  arms  [heart, 
Had  felt  the  faltering  of  his  mother's 
And  look'd  as  bloodless.     Here  a 
pious  Catholic,  [prayers 
Mumbling  and  mixing  up  in  his  scared 
Heaven  and  earth's  Maries;  over  his 
•  bow'd  shoulder       [hating  beast, 
Scowrd  that  world-hated  and  world- 
A  haggard  Anabaptist.    Many  such 
groups.  [Courtenay, 
The   names    of   Wyatt,  Elizabeth, 
Nay  the  Queen's  rifjht  to  reign — 'fore 
God,  the  rogues —  [I  say 
Were  freely  buzz'd  among  them.  So 
Your  city  is  divided,  and  I  fear 
One  scruple,  this  or  that  way,  of  suc- 
cess                   [now  the  Queen 
Would  turn  it  thither.  Wherefore 
In  this  low  pulse  and  palsy  of  the 
state,                               [on  you 
Bade  me  to  tell  you  that  she  counts 
And  on  myself  as  her  two  hands;  on 
you,  [Lord, 
In  your  own  city,  as  her  right,  my 
For  you  are  loyal. 

White.  Am  I  Thomas  White? 

One  word  before  she  comes.  Eliza- 
beth— [these  traitors. 
Her  name  is  much  abused  among 
Where  is  she?  She  ie  loved  by  all  of 
us.  [matter. 
I  scarce  have  heart  to  mingle  in  this 
If  she  should  be  mishandled? 

How.  No;  she  shall  not. 

The  Queen  had  written  her  word  to 
come  to  court:  [letter, 
Methought  I  smelt  out  Renard  in  the 
Ai'1  fearing  for  her,  sent  a  secret 
missive  [or  not. 

Which  told  her  to  be  sick.  Happily 
It  found  Ler  sick  indeed. 

White.  God  send  her  well; 

Here  comes  her  Royal  Grace. 
Enter  Guards,  Mary,  and  Gardiner. 
Sir  Thomas  White  leads  her  to  a 
raised  seat  on  the  dais. 
White.     I,  the   Lord   Mayor,  and 
these  our  companies 


471 

And  guilds  of  London,  gathered  here, 
beseech  [thanks 
Your  highness  to  accept  our  lowliest 
For  your  most  princely  presence ;  and 
we  pray 

That  we,  your  true  and  loyal  citizens, 
From  your  own  royal  lips,  at  once 

may  know  [learn 
The  wherefore  of  this  coming,  and  so 
Your  royal  will,  and  do  it — I,  Lord 

Mayor  [panics. 
Of  London,  and  our  Guilds  and  Com- 
Mary.    In  mine  own  person  am  1 

come  to  you,  [know. 
To  tell  you  what  indeed  ve  see  and 
How  traitorously  these  rebels  out  of 

Kent  [selves  and  you. 

Have  made  strong  head  against  our- 
They  would  not  have  me  wed  the 

Prince  of  Spain;  [at  first — 

That  was  their  prete  xt — so  they  spake 
But  we  sent  divers  of  our  Council  to 

them,  [ask'd. 
And  by  their  answers  to  the  question 
It  doth  appear  this  marriage  is  the 

least 

Of  all  their  quarrel.     [their  hearts  : 
They  have  betrayed  the  treason  of 
Seek  to  possess  our  person,  hold  our 
Tower,  [and  use 

Place  and  displace  our  councillors. 
Both  us  and  them  according  as  they 
will.  [your  Queen; 

Now  what  am  I  ye  know  right  well — 
To  whom,  when  I  was  wedded  to  the 
realm  [ring  whereof, 

And  the  realm's  laws  (the  spousal 
Not  ever  to  be  laid  aside.  I  wear 
Upon  this  finger),  ye  did  promise 
full  [death. 
Allegiance  and  obedience  to  the 
Ye  know  my  father  was  the  rightful 
heir  [to  me, 

Of  England,  and  his  right  came  down 
Corroborate  by  your  acts  of  Parlia- 
ment: 

And  as  ye  were  most  loving  unto  him. 
So  doubtless  will  ye  show  yourselves 
to  me.  [any  one 

Wherefore,  ye  will  not  brook  that 
Should  seize  our  person,  occupy  our 
state,  [sumptuous 
More  specially  a  traitor  so  pre- 
As  this  same  Wyatt,  who  hath  tam- 
per d  with 


qjJEEN  MARY. 


472 

A  public  ignorance,  and,  under  color 
Of  such  a  cause  as  hath  no  color, 
seeks  [yield 
To  bend  the  laws  to  his  own  will,  and 
Full  scope  to  persons  rascal  and  for- 
lorn, [goods. 
To  make  free  spoil  and  havoc  of  your 
Now  as  your  Prince,  I  say, 
I,  that  was  never  mother,  cannot  tell 
How  mothers  love  their  children;  yet, 

methinks, 
A  prince  as  naturally  may  love  his 
people  [your  Queen 

As  these  their  children;  and  be  sure 
So  loves  you,  and  so  loving,  needs 

must  deem 
This  love  by  you  return'd  as  heartily : 
And  thro'  this  common  knot  and 
bond  of  love,  [thrown. 
Doubt  not  they  will  be  speedily  over- 
As  to  this  marriage,  ye  shall  under- 
stand [selves. 
We  made  thereto  no  treaty  of  our- 
And  set  no  foot  theretoward  unad- 
vised [more, 
Of  all  our  Privy  Council;  further- 
This  marriage  had  the  assent  of  those 
to  whom  [trust; 
The  king,  my  father,  did  commit  his 
Who  not  alone  esteemed  it  honorable. 
But  for  the  wealth  and  glory  of  our 
realm,  [pedient. 
And  all  our  loving  subjects,  most  ex- 
As  to  myself,  [choose 
I  am  not  so  set  on  wedlock  as  to 
But  where  I  list,  nor  yet  so  amorous 
That  I  must  needs  be  husbanded;  1 
thank  God,  [doubt 
I  have  lived  a  virgin,  and  I  noway 
But  that  with  God's  grace,  I  can  live 
so  still.  [should  leave 

Yet  if  it  might  please  God  that  I 
Some  fruit  of  mine  own  body  after  me, 
To  be  your  king,  ye  would  rejoice 
thereat,  [trust; 
And  it  would  be  your  comfort,  as  I 
And  truly,  if  I  either  thought  or  knew 
This  marriage  should  bring  loss  or 

danger  to  you. 
My  sub]ects,  or  impair  in  any  way 
This  royal  state  of  England,  I  would 
never  [live; 
Consent  thereto,  nor  marry  while  I 
Moreover,  if  this  marriage  should  not 
seem. 


Act  2 

Before  our  own  high  Court  of  Parlia 
ment, 

To  be  of  rich  advantage  to  our  realm 
We  will  refrain,  and  not  alone  from 
this. 

Likewise  from  any  other,  out  of 
which  [our  re  Im. 

Looms  the  least  chance  of  peril  to 
Wherefore  be  bold,  and  with  your 
lawful  Prince  [yours. 
Stand  fast  against  our  enemies  and 
And  fear  them  not.    I  fear  them  not. 

My  Lord,  [city, 
I  leave  Lord  William  Howard  in  your 
To  guard  and  keep  you  whole  and  safe 
from  all  [these  rebels. 

The  spoil  and  sackage  aim'd  at  by 
Who  mouth  and  foam  against  the 
Prince  of  Spain. 
Voices.    Long  li v  e  Queen  Mary ! 

Down  with  Wyatt  ! 

The  Queen  ! 
White.    Three    voices   from  our 
guilds  and  companies. 
You  are  shy  and  proud  like  English- 
men, my  masters, 
And  will  not  trust  your  voices.  Un- 
derstand: 
Your  lawful  Prince  hath  come  to 
cast  herself  [to  fall 

On  loyal  hearts  and  bosoms,  hoped 
Into  the  wide-spread  arms  of  fealty. 
And  finds  you  statues.  Speak  at 
For  whom  ?  [once — and  all  } 

Our  sovereign  Lady  by  King  Harry's 
will;  [ish  Squire? 

The  Queen  of  England— or  the  Kent- 
I  know  you  loyal.     Speak  !  in  the 
name  of  God  !  [of  Kent? 

The  QueQ^i  of  England  or  the  rabble 
The  reeking  dungfork  master  of  the 
mace !  [and  spade— 

Your  havings  wasted  by  the  scythe 
Your  rights  and  charters  hobnail  d 
into  slush—  [bling  blood— 

Your  houses  fired — your  gutters  bub- 
Acclaynation.    No!  No!  TheQueenI 

the  Queen! 
White.  Your  Highness  heara 

This  burst  and  bass  of  loyal  har- 
mony. 

And  how  we  each  and  all  of  us  abhor 
The  venomous,  bestial,  devilish  re» 
volt  [make  oath 

Of  Thomas  Wyatt.     Hear  us  now 


QUEEN'  MARY. 


Scene  2 


QUEEN' 


MARY. 


473 


To  raise  your  Highness  thirty  thou-  | 

sand  men,  [and  brush 

And  arm  and  strike  as  with  one  hand, 
This  Wyatt  from  our  shoulders,  like 
a  flea  [wares. 
That  might  have  leapt  upon  us  una- 
Swear  with  me,  noble  fellow-citizens, 
all,  [companies. 
With  all  your  trades,  and  guilds,  and 
Citizens.    We  swear! 
Mary.      We  thank  your  Lordship 
and  your  loyal  city. 

{Exit  Mary  attended. 
White.    I  trust  this  day,  thro'  God, 
I  have  saved  the  crown. 

1  Aid.     Ay,  so  my  Lord  of  Pem- 
broke in  command 

Of  all  her  force  be  safe;  but  there 
are  doubts. 

2  Aid.    I  hear  that  Gardiner,  com- 
ing with  the  Queen, 

And  meeting  Pembroke,  bent  to  his 
saddle-bow,  [him. 
As  if  to  win  the  man  by  flattering 
Is  he  so  safe  to  flght  upon  her  side  ? 

1  Aid.  If  not,  there's  no  man  safe. 
White.  Yes,  Thomas  White. 

I  am  safe  enough:  no  man  need  flat- 
ter me.       [you  mark  our  Queen? 

2  Aid.  Nay,  no  man  need  ;  but  did 
The  color  freely  play'd  into  her  face, 
And  the  half  sight  which  makes  her 

look  so  stern,  [of  hers, 

Seem'd  thro'  that  dim  dilated  world 
To  read  our  faces;  I  have  never  seen 
So  queenly  or  so  goodly.  [her 
White.  Courage,  sir, 

That  makes  or  man  or  woman  look 
their  goodliest.  [whine 
Die  like  the  torn  fox  dumb,  but  never 
Like  that  poor  heart,  Northumber- 
land, at  the  block. 
Bag.    The  man  had  children,  and 
he  whined  for  those. 
Methinks  most   men  are  but  poor- 
hearted,  else  [it  commoner? 
Should  we  so  doat  on  courage,  were 
The  Queen  stands  up,  and  speaks  for 
her  own  self  ;  [is  goodly. 
And  all  men  cry,  she  is  queenly,  she 
Yet  she's  no  goodlier;  tho'  my  Lord 
Mayor  here,  [to-day. 
By  his  own  rule,  he  had  been  so  bold 
Should  look  more  goodly  than  the 
rest  of  us. 


I     White.    Goodly?  I  feel  most  goodly 
heart  and  hand.  [all  Kent. 

And  strong  to  throw  ten  Wyatts  and 
Ha!  ha!  sir;  but  you  jest;  I  love  it:  a 
jest  [even. 
In  time  of  danger  shows  the  pulses 
Be  merry!  yet.  Sir  Ralph,  you  look 
but  sad.  [yourself, 
I  dare  avouch  you'd  stand  up  for 
Tho'  all  the  world  should  bay  like 
winter  wolves. 
Bag.     Who   knows  ?  the   man  is 

proven  by  the  hour. 
White.    The  man  should  make  the 
hour,  not  this  the  man; 
And  Thomas  White  will  prove  this 
Thomas  Wyatt,  [Cade, 
And  he  will  prove  an  Iden  to  this 
And  he  will  play  the  Walworth  to  this 
Wat ;  [gather  your  men — 

Come,  sirs,  we  prate  ;  hence  all — 
Myself  must  bustle.  Wyatt  comes 
to  Southwaiik;  [the  Thames, 
I'll  have  the  drawbridge  hewn  into 
And  see  the  citizen  arm  d.  Good  day; 
good  day.  [Exit  White. 

Bag.  One  of  much  outdoor  bluster. 
How.  For  all  that. 

Most  honest,  brave,  and  skilful;  and 
his  wealth  [fault 
A  fountain  of  perennial  alms— his 
So  thoroughly  to  believe  in  his  own 
self.  [one's  own  self, 

Bag.  Yet  thoroughly  to  believe  in 
,  So  one's  own  self  be  thorough,  were 
Great  things,  my  lord.  [to  do' 

How.  It  may  be. 

Bag.  I  have  heard 

One  of  your  council  fleer  and  jeer  at 
him.  [will  jeer  at  aught 

Hoiv.    The  nursery-cocker'd  child 
That  may  seem  strange  beyond  his 
nursery.  [fleer  at  men, 

The  statesman  that  shall  jeer  and 
Makes  enemies  for  himself  and  for 
his  king; 

And  if  he  jeer  not  seeing  the  true  man 
Behind  his  folly,  he  is  thrice  the  fool; 
And  if  he  see  the  man  and  still  will 
jeer,  [the  State. 

He  is  child  and  fool,  and  traitor  to 
AVho  is  he  ?   Let  me  shun  him. 

Bag.  Nay,  my  Lord, 

He  is  damn'd  enough  already. 
How.  I  must  set 


474 


QUEEN 


MARY. 


Act  2 


The  guard  at  Ludgate.     Fare  you 

well,  Sir  Ralph. 
Bay.     "'Who  knows?"    I  am  for 

England.    But  who  knows, 
That  knows  the  Queen,  the  Spaniard, 

and  the  Pope, 
Whether  I  be  for  Wyatt,    or  the 

Queen  ?  [Exeunt. 
Scene  II  I. — London  Bridge. 
Enter  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  Brett. 
Wyatt.    Brett,  when  the  Duke  of 

Norfolk  moved  against  us 
Thou  criedst  "a  Wyatt,"  and  flying 

to  our  side 
Left  his  all  bare,  for  which  I  Jove  thee, 

Brett.  [can  give, 

Have  for  thine  asking  aught  that  I 
For  thro'  thine  help  we  are  come  to 

London  Bridge;         [we  cannot. 
But  how  to  cross  it  balks  me.    I  fear 
Brett.    Nay,  hardly,  save  by  boat, 

swimming,  or  wings. 
Wyatt.    Last  night  I  climb'd  into 

the  gate-house,  Brett, 
And  scared  the  gray  old  porter  and 

his  wife.  [saw 
And  then  I  crept  along  the  gloom  and 
Thev  had  hewn  the  drawbridge  down 

mto  the  river.  [same  tide 

It  roird  as  black  as  death  ;  and  that 
Which,  coming   with   our  coming, 

seem'd  to  smile  [saidest. 
And  sparkle  like  our  fortune  as  thou 
Ran    sunless    down,    and  moan'd 

against  the  piers. 
But  o^er  the  chasm  I  saw  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard 
By  torchlight,  and  his  guard;  four 

guns  gaped  at  me. 
Black,  silent  mouths  :  had  Howard 

spied  me  there 
And  made  them  speak,  as  well  he 

might  have  done,  [you  this. 

Their  voice  had  left  me  none  to  tell 
What  shall  we  do  y 

Brett.  On  somehow.  To  go  back 
Were  to  lose  all. 

Wyatt.      On  over  London  Bridge 
We  cannot:  stay  we  cannot;  there  is 

ordnance  [il's  Tower, 

On  the  White  Tower  and  on  the  Dev- 
And  pointed  full  at  Southwark;  we 
By  Kingston  Bridge.       [must  round 
Brett.         Ten  miles  about. 


Wyatt.  Ev'n  so. 

But  I  have  noticed  from  our  partisans 
Within  the  city  that  they  will  stand 
by  us,  [to-morrow. 
If  Ludgate  can  be  reached  by  dawn 

Enter  one  of  Wyatt 's  men. 

Man.  Sir  Thomas,  I've  found  this 
paper,  pray  your  worship  read  it;  I 
know  not  my  letters;  the  old  priest 
taught  me  nothing. 

Wyatt  {reaxis).  Whosoever  will  ap- 
prehend the  traitor  Thomas  Wyatt 
shall  Jiave  a  hundred  pounds  for  re- 
ward. 

Man.   Is  that  it  ?  That's  a  big  lot 

of  money. 
Wyatt.  Ay,  ay,  my  friend ;  not  read 
it?   'tis  not  written 
Half  plain  enough.    Give  me  a  piece 
of  paper ! 

[Writes  "Thomas  Wyatt"  large. 
There,  any  man  can  read  that. 

[Sticks  it  in  his  cap. 
Brett.  But  that's  foolhardy. 

Wyatt.    No!  boldness,  which  will 
give  my  followers  boldness. 

Enter  Man  with  a  prisoner. 
Man.    We   found  him,  your  wor- 
ship, a  plundering  o'  Bishop  Win- 
chester s  house  ;  he  says  he's  a 
poor  gentleman. 
Wyatt.     Gentleman,  a  thief !  Go 
hang  him.    Shall  we  make 
Those  that  we  come  to  serve  our 
sharpest  foes  ? 
Brett.    Sir  Thomas— 
Wyatt.  Hang  him,  I  say. 

Brett.  Wyatt,  but  now  you  promis- 
ed me  a  boon.  [fellow's  life. 
Wyatt.    Ay,  and  I  warrant  this  fine 
Brett    Ev'n  so;  he  was  ray  neigh- 
bor once  in  Kent.     [gambled  out 
He's  poor  enough,  has  drunk  and 
Ail  that  he  had,  and  gentleman  he 
was.  [him  live. 
We  have  been  glad  together ;  let 
Wyatt.    He  has  gambled  for  his 
life,  and  lost,  he  hangs. 
No,  no,  my  word's  my  word.  Take 
thy  poor  gentleman!     [my  sight. 
Gamble    thyself   at    once    out  of 
Or  I  will  dig  thee  with  my  dagger. 
Women  and  children!  [Away  1 


Seme  4: 


QUEJSf^N'  MARY. 


Enter  a    Crowd    of    Women  and 
Children. 

1  Wmian.  O  Sir  Thomas,  Sir 
Thomas,  pray  you  go  away,  SirTbom- 
as,  or  you'll  make  the  White  Tower  a 
black  'un  lor  us  this  blessed  dav. 
He'll  be  the  death  on  us  ;  and  youil 
set  the  Divil's  Tower  a-spitting,  and 
he'll  smash  all  our  bits  o'  things 
worse  than  Philip  o'  Spain. 

2  Woman.  Don't  ye  now  go  to 
think  that  we  be  for  Philip  o'  Spain. 

3  Woman.  No,  we  know  that  ye 
be  come  to  kill  the  Queen,  and  we'll 
pray  for  you  all  on  our  bended  knees. 
But  o'  God's  mercy  don't  ye  kill  the 
Queen  here.  Sir  Thomas  ;  look  ye, 
here's  little  Dickon,  and  little  Robin 
and  little  Jenny— though  she  s  but  a 
side-cousin— and  all  on  our  knees,  we 
pray  you  to  kill  the  Queen  farther 
off.  Sir  Thomas. 

Wyatt.  My  friends,  I  have  not  come 
to  kill  the  Queen  [all. 
Or  here  or  there  :  I  come  to  save  you 
And  I'll  go  farther  off. 

Crowd.  Thanks,  Sir  Thomas,  we  be 
beholden  to  you,  and  we'll  pray  for 
y^ou  on  our  bended  knees  till  our 
lives'  end. 

Wyatt  Be  happy,  I  am  vour  friend. 
To  Kingston,  forward.  [Exeunt, 

Scene  l\.—Boom  in  the  Gatehouse  of 
Westminster  Palace.    Mary,  Alice, 
Gardiner,  Renard,  Ladies. 
Alice.    O  madam,  if  Lord  Pem- 
broke should  be  false  ? 
Mary.    No,  girl :  most  brave  and 
loyal,  brave  and  loyal. 
His  breaking  with  Northumberland 
broke  Northumberland,  [guards. 
At  the  park  gate  he  hovers  with  our 
These    Kentish  ploughmen  cannot 
break  the  guards. 

Enter  Messenger. 
Mes.    Wyatt.  your  Grace,  hath  bro- 
ken thro'  the  guards 
And  gone  to  Ludgate. 

Gard.  Madam,  I  much  fear 

That  all  is  lost  ;  but  we  can  save  your 
Grace. 

The  river  still  is  free.   I  do  beseech 
you,  [to  Windsor. 

There  yet  is  time,  take  boat  and  nass 


475 


Mary.    I  pass  to  Windsor  and  I  lose 

my  crown. 
Gard.    Pass,   then,  I   pray  your 

Highness,  to  the  Tower. 
Mary.    I  shall  but  be  their  prisoner 
in  the  Tower.  [Pembroke  I 

Cries  with&ut.  The  traitor!  treason! 
Ladies.  Treason  !  Treason  1 

Mary.    Peace.  [to  me? 

False  to  Northumberland,  is  he  false 
Bear  witness,  Renard,  that  I  live  and 
die  [A  sound 

The  true  and  faithful  bride  of  Philip — 
Of  feet  and  voices  thickening  hither- 
blows-  [gates, 
Hark,  there  is  battlp  at  the  palace 
And  I  will  out  upon  the  gallery. 
Ladies.    No,  no,  your  Grace  ;  see 

there  the  arrows  flying. 
Mary.   I  am  Harry's  daughter,  Tu- 
dor, and  not  fear, 

[Goes  out  on  the  gallery. 
The  guards  are  all  driven  in,  skulk 
into  corners  [guard 
Like  rabbits  to  their  holes.  A  gracious 
Truly ;  shame   on  them  they  have 
shut  the  gates! 
Enter  Sir  Robert  Southwell. 
South.    The    porter,  please  your 
Grace,  hath  shut  the  gates 
On  friend  and  foe.    Your  gentlemen- 
at-arms,  [cry 
If  this  be  not  your  Grace's  order, 
To  have  the  gates  set  wide  again,  and 
they  [you  right 

With  their  good  battle-axes  will  do 
Against  all  traitors. 
Mary.    They  are  the  flower  of  Eng- 
land; set  the  gates  wide. 

[Exit  Southwell. 
Entei^  Courtenay. 
Court.   All  lost,  all  lost,  all  yielded 
a  barge,  a  barge. 
The  Queen  must  to  the  Tower. 
Mary.         Whence  come  you,  sir  ? 
Court.    From  Charing  Cross  ;  the 
rebels  broke  us  there,  [might 
And  I  sped  hither  with  what  haste  I 
To  save  my  royal  cousin. 
Mary.    Where  is  Pembroke  ? 
Court.  I  left  him  somewhere  in  the 
thick  of  it.  [that  wouldst  be  King, 
Mary.    Left  him  and  fled  ;  and  thou 
And  hast  no  heart  nor  honor  ^  Tinvself 


476 


QUEEN 


MARY. 


Act% 


"Will  down  into  the  battle  and  there 
bide  [those 
The  upshot  of  my  quarrel,  or  die  with 
That  are  no  cowards  and  no  Courte- 
nays.        [should  call  me  coward. 
Court.   I  do  not  love  your  Grace 

Enter  another  Messenger. 
Mes.  Over,  your  Grace,  all  crushed; 
the  brave  Lord  William 
Thrust  him  from  Ludgate,  and  the 
traitor  flying  [Berkeley 
To  Temple  Bar  there  by  Sir  Maurice 
Was  taken  prisoner 
Mary.         To  the  Tower  with  him  ! 
Mes.    'Tis  said  he  told  Sir  Maurice 
there  was  one  [unto, 
Cognizant  of  this,  and  party  there- 
My  Lord  of  Devon. 
Mary.         To  the  Tower  with  hmi! 
Court.    O  la,  the  Tower,  the  Tower, 
always  the  Tower,       [the  Tower. 
I  shall   grow  into    it — I    shall  be 
Mary.     Your   Lordship  may  not 
have  so  long  to  wait. 
Remove  him  ! 

Court.    La,  to  whistle  out  my  life, 
And  carve  my  coat  upon  the  walls 
again!    [Exit  Qonxt^udiyf  guarded. 
Mes.    Also  this  Wyatt  did  confess 
the  Princess  [unto. 
Cognizant  thereof,  and  party  there- 
Mary.     What?   whom— whom  did 

you  say  ^ 
Mes.  Elizabeth, 
Your  Royal  sister. 

Mary.         To  the  Tower  with  her  ! 
My  foes  are  at  my  feet  and  I  am 
Queen. 

[Gardiner  and  her  Ladies  kneel  toher. 
Card,  {rising.)   There  let  them  lie, 
your  footstool  !  {Aside) 
Can  I  strike  [life 
Elizabeth?— not  now  and   save  the 
Of  Devon  :  if  I  save  him,  he  and  his 
Are  bound  to  me— may  strike  here- 
after.   {Aloud.)  Madam, 
What  Wyatt  said,  or  what  they  said 
he  said, 

Cries  of  the  moment  and  the  street — 
Mary.  He  said  it. 

Gar'd.    Your  courts  of  justice  will 

determine  that. 
lien,  {advancing.)   I  trust  by  this 
your  Highn^K:;:;  will  allow 


Some  spice  of  wisdom  in  my  telling 
you,  [not  come 

When  last  we  talk'd,  that  Philip  would 
Till  Guildford  Dudley  and  the  Duke 

of  Suffolk 
And  Lady  Jane  had  left  us. 
Mary.  They  shall  die. 

Ren.   And  your  so  loving  sister? 
Mary.  She  shall  die. 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet,  and  Philip 
King.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.— The   Conduit    in  Grace 
Church.     Painted  with  the  Nine 
Worthies,  among  them  King  Henry 
VIH.,  holding  a  book,  on  it  inscrib' 
ed  "VerbumDei." 
Enter  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  and  Sir 
Thomas  Stafford. 
Bag.   A  hundred  here  and  hundreds 
hang'd  in  Kent.  [at  last, 

The  Tigress  had  imsheath'd  her  nails 
And  Renard  and  the  Chancellor 
sharpened  them.  [stood. 
In  every  London  street  a  gibbet 
They  are  down  to-day.  Here  by  this 
house  was  one;  [door, 
The  traitor  husband  dangled  at  the 
And  when  the  traitor  wife  came  out 

for  bread 
To  still  the  petty  treason  therewithin, 
Her  cap  would  brush  his  heels. 

Stof.  It  is  Sir  Ralph, 

And  muttering  to  himself  as  hereto- 
fore. 

Sir,  see  you  aught  up  yonder? 

Bac/.  I  miss  something. 

The  tree  that  only  bears  dead  fruit 
is  gone. 

/Staf.    What  tree,  sir?  [sir. 

Bog.  Well,  the  tree  in  Virgil, 

That  bears  not  its  own  apples. 

Staf.  What!  the  gallows? 

Bag.  Sir,  this  dead  fruit  was  ripen- 
ing overmuch,  [Spain 
And  had  to  be  removed  lest  living 
Should  sicken  at  dead  England. 

Staf.  Not  so  dead, 

But  that  a  shock  may  rouse  her. 

Bag.  I  believe 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford  ? 

Staf.  I  am  ill  disguised* 


Scene  1 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Bag.    Well,  are  you  not  in  peril 
here? 

Staf.  I  think  so. 

I  came  to  feel  the  pulse  of  England, 

whether  [you  see 't? 

It  beats  hard  at  this  marriage.  Did 
Bag.    Stafford,  I  am  a  sad  man  and 

a  serious. 
Far  liefer  had  I  in  my  country  hall 
Been  reading  some  old  book,  with 

mine  old  hound  [flask  of  wine 
Couch'd  at  my  hearth,  and  mine  old 
Beside  me,  than  have  seen  it,  yet  I 

saw  it. 

Staf.    Good,  was  it  splendid? 
Bag.  Ay,  if  Dukes,  and  Earls, 

And  Counts,  and  sixty  Spanish  cava- 
liers, [pearls. 
Some  six  or  seven  Bishops,  diamonds, 
.That  royal  commonplace  too,  cloth 
Could  make  it  so.  [of  gold, 

Staf.    And  what  was  Mary \s  dress? 
Bag.    Good  faith,  I  was  too  sorry 
for  the  woman  [shoes ! 

To  mark  the  dress.    She  wore  red 
Staf.  Red  shoes  ? 

Bag.    Scarlet,  as  if  her  feet  were 
washed  in  blood. 
As  if  she  had  waded  in  it. 

Staf.  Were  your  eyes 

So  bashful  that  you  look'd  no  higher? 

Bag.  A  diamond. 

And  Philip's  gift,  as  proof  of  Philip's 
love,  [true  one. 

Who  hath  not  any  for  any, — tho'  a 
Blazed  false  upon  her  heart. 
Staf.  But  this  proud  Prince — 

Bag.    Nay,  he  is  King,  you  know, 
the  King  of  Naples. 
The  father  ceded  Naples,  that  the  son 
Being  a  King,  might  wed  a  Queen — O 
lie  •  [trunk  hose. 

Flamed  in  brocade— white  satin  his 
Inwrought  with  silver, — on  his  neck  a 
collar,  [down  from  this 

Gold,  thick  with  diamonds  ;  hanging 
The  Golden  Fleece— and  round  his 

knee,  misplaced, 
Our  English   Garter,  studded  with 
great  emeralds,        [had  enough 
Rubies,  I  know  not  what.    Have  you 
Of  all  this  gear  ? 
Staf.  Ay,  since  you  hate  the 

telling  it. 
How  lookM  the  Queen  ? 


Bag.  No  fairer  for  her  jewels. 

And  I  could  see  that  as  the  new-made 

couple  [by  side 

Came  from  the  Minster,  moving  side 
Beneath  one  canopy,  ever  and  anon 
She  cast  on  him  a  vassal  smile  of  love. 
Which  Philip,  with  a  glance  of  some 

distaste,  [wrong,  sir. 

Or  so  methought,  return'd.  I  may  be 
This  marriage  will  not  hold. 

Staf.  I  think  with  you. 

The  King  of  France  will  help  to  break 

it. 

Bag.  France  ! 

We  once  had  half  of  Fr.ance,  and 

hurl'd  our  battles 
Into  the  heart  of  Spain;  but  England 

now  [and  Spain, 

Is  but  a  ball  chuck'd  between  France 
His  in  whose  hand  she  drops;  Harry 

of  Bolingbroke 
Had     holpen    Richard's  tottering 

throne  to  stand,  [our  nobles 
Could  Harry  have  foreseen  that  all 
Would  perish  on  the  civil  slaughter- 
field,  [crown, 
And  leave  the  people  naked  to  the 
And  the  crown  naked  to  the  people; 

the  crown  [men 
Female,  too  !  Sir,  no  woman's  regi- 
Can  save  us.    We  are  fallen,  and  as  I 

think,  • 
Never  to  rise  again. 

Staf.  You  are  too  black-blooded. 
I'd  make  a  move  myself  to  hinder 

that  :  [France. 
I  know  some  lusty  fellows  there  in 
Bag.     You  would  but  make  us 

weaker,  Thomas  Statford. 
Wyatt  was  a  good  soldier,  yet  he 
And  strengthen'd  Philip.  [fail'd, 
St'if.  Did  not  his  last  breath 

Clear  Courtenay  and  the  Princess 

from  the  charge 
Of  being  his  co-rebels? 

Bag.  Ay,  but  then 

What  such  a  one  as  Wyatt  says  is 

nothing :  [Lords 
We  have  no  men  among  us.  The  new 
Are  quieted  with  their  sop  of  Abbey- 
lands,  [Gardiner  buys  them 
And  ev'n  before  the  Queen's  face 
With  Philip's  gold.     All  greed,  no 

faith,  no  courage!  [umberland, 
Why,  ev'n  the  haughty  prince,  Nort" 


478 


QUEEN"  MARY. 


ActZ 


The  leader  of  our  Reformation,  knelt 
And  blubber'd  like  a  lad,  and  on  the 

scaffold  [Rome. 
Recanted,  and   resold    himself  to 
Staf.    1  swear  you  do  your  country 

wrong,  Sir  Ralph. 
I  know  a  set  of  exiles  over  there. 
Dare-devils,  that  would  eat  nre  and 

spit  it  out  [already. 
At  Philip's  beard:  they  pillage  Spain 
The  French  King  winks  at  it.  An 

hour  will  come 
When  they  will  sweep  her  from  the 

seas.  No  men  ?  [man? 
Did  not  Lord  Suffolk  die  like  a  true 
Is  not  Lord  William  Howard  a  true 

man?  [black-blooded 
Yea,  you  yourself,  altho'  you  are 
And  I,  by  God,  believe  myself  a  man. 
Ay,  even  in  the  church  therfe  is  a 

man — 

Cranmer.  [bade  him  fly. 

Fly,  would  he  not,  when  all  men 
And  what  a  letter  he  wrote  against 

the  Pope! 
There's  a  brave  ma  ,  if  any. 
Bag.         Ay  ;  if  it  hold.  [Graces! 
Croy)d  (coming  on).   God  save  their 
Staf.  Bagenhall,  I  see 

The  Tudor  green  and  white.  {Trum- 
pets.)  They  are  coming  now. 
Aifd  here's  a  crowd  as  thick  as  her- 
ring-shoals, (we  are  torn 
Ba^.    Be  limpets  to  this  pillar,  or 
Down  the  strong  wave  of  brawlers. 
Crowd.    God  save  thei.-  Graces, 
[Procession  of  Timmpeters,  Javelin- 
men,  etc.;  then  Sp<tni,sh  and  Flem- 
ish Nobles  intermingled.  ! 
Staf.    Worth   seeing,    Bagenhall  !  | 
These  black  dog-Dons  I 
Garb   themselves    bra\ely.    Who's  i 

the  long-face  there,  . 
Looks  very  Spain  of  very  Spain  ? 

Ba(/.  The  Duke 

Of  Alva,  an  iron  soldier. 

Staf.  And  the  Dutchman, 

Now  laughing  at  some  jest  ? 

Bag.  William  of  Orange, 

William  the  Silent. 

Staf.        Why  do  they  call  him  so  ? 
Bag.    He    keej:  s,   they  say,  some 
secret  that  may  cost 
Philip  his  life. 

'taf.     But  then  he  looks  so  merry. 


Bag.    I  cannot  tell  you  why  they 

call  him  so. 
[The  King  and  Queenpass,  attended 
by  Peers  of  the  Realm,  Ojficers  of 
State,  etc.    Cannon  shot  off. 
Crowd.     Philip  and  Mary,  Philip 
and  Mary.  [Philip  and  Mary. 

:  Long    live    the   King   and  Queen, 
staf.    They  smile  as  if  content 
with  one  another.         [at  home. 
Bag.    A  smile  abroad  is  oft  a  scowl 
[King  and  Queen  pass  on.  Procession. 

1  at.  I  thought  this  Philip  had 
been  one  of  those  black  devils  of 
Spain,  but  he  hath  a  yellow  beard. 

2  at.    Not  red  like  Iscariot's. 
1  at.    Like   a  carrot's,  as  tuou 

sayst,  and  English  carrot's  better 
than  Spanish  licoiice  ;  but  I  thought 
he  was  a  beast, 

3  at.  Certain  I  had  heard  that 
every  Spaniard  carries  a  tail  like  a 
devil  under  his  trunk  hose. 

Tailor.  Ay,  but  see  what  trunk- 
hoses  !  Lord  !  they  be  fine  ;  I  never 
stitch'd  none  such.  They  make 
amends  for  the  tails. 

4  at.      Tut  !     every  Spanish 

Eriest  will  tell  you  that  all  English 
eretics  have  tails. 

5  at.    Death    and  the   Devil -if 
he  find  I  have  one — 

4  %it.    Lo  !  thou  hast  call'd  them 
up  !  here  they  come — a  pale  horse  fc^r 
Death  and  Gardiner  for  the  Devil. 
Enter  Gardiner   (turning  back  from 
the  procession). 
Gard.    Knave,  wilt  thou  wear  thy 

cap  before  the  Queen  ? 
Man.  My  Lord,  I  stand  so  squeezed 
among  the  crowd  [head. 
I   cannot  lift   my  hands  unto  my 
Gard.  Knock  off  his  cap  there,  some 
of  you  about  him  !  [hands. 
See  there  be  others  that  can  use  their 
Thou  art  one  of  Wyatt's  men  ? 
3Jan.  *^  No,  ray  Lord,  no. 

Gard.   Thy  name,  thou  knave  ? 
Man.  I  am  not  Ddy,  my  Lord. 

Card,  (shoutin").     God  s  passion! 

knave,  thy  name? 
Man.  1  have  ears  to  hear. 

Gai'd.    Ay,  rascal,  if  I  leave  thee 
ears  to  hear.  [Attendant). 
ind  out  his  name  and  bring  it  me  (to 


Scene  1 

At.  Ay,  my  Lord. 

Gard.    Knave,  thou  shalt  lose  thine 
ears  and  find  thy  tongue, 
And  shalt   be  thankful  if  I  leave 
thee  that. 

[Coming  before  the  Conduit. 
The  conduit  painted — the  nine  wor- 
thies— ay! 
But  then  what's  here?    King  Harry 
with  a  scroll.  [God! 
Ha — Verbum  Dei — verbum — word  of 
God's  passion !  do  you  know  the  knave 
that  painted  it  ? 
At.    I  do,  my  Lord. 
Gard.  Tell  him  to  paint  it  out. 

And  put  some  fresh  device  in  lieu  of 
it—  [ha? 
A  pair  of  gloves,  a  pair  of  gloves,  sir; 
There  is  no  heresy  there. 

At.  I  will,  my  Lord. 

The  man  shall  paint  a  pair  of  gloves. 

I  am  sure  [ignorantly, 
(Knowing  the  man)  he  wrought  it 
And  not  from  any  malice. 

Gard.  Word  of  God 

In  English  !  over  this  the  brainless 
loons  [Paul, 
That  cannot  spell  Esaias  from  St. 
Make  themselves  drunk  and  mad,  fly 
out  and  flare  [burnt. 
Into  rebellions.   I'll  have  their  Bibles 
The  Bible  is  the  priest's.    Ay!  fellow, 
what!  [gaping  rogue. 

Stand   staring  at  me  !  shout,  you 
Man.    I  have,  my  Lord,  shouted 

till  I  am  hoarse.  [knave  ?  

Gard.  What  hast  thou  shouted, 
Man.  Lon<  live  Queen  Mary. 

Gard.    Knave,  there  be  two.  There 
be  both  King  and  Queen, 
Philip  and  Mary.  Shout. 

3Ian.  Nay,  but,  my  Lord, 

The   Queen  comes  first,  Mary  and 
Philip. 

Gard.  Shout,  then, 

Mary  and  Philip. 

Ma7i.  Mary  and  Philip ! 

Gard.  Now, 
Thou  hast  shouted  for  thy  pleasure, 

shout  for  mine! 
Philip  and  Mary ! 

Man.        Must  it  be  so,  my  Lord? 

Gard.    Ay,  knave. 

3fan.  Philip  and  Mary, 

Gard.  I  distrust  thee. 


479 

Thine  is  a  half  voice  and  a  lean  assent. 
What  is  thy  name? 

Man.  Sanders. 

Gard.  What  else? 

Man.  Zerubbabel. 

Gard.    Where  dost  thou  live? 

Man.         In  Cornhill. 

Gard.  Where,  knave,  where? 

Man.    Sign  of  the  Talbot. 

Gard.      Come  to  me  to-morrow.— 
Rascal!— this  land  is  like  a  hill  of  fire, 
One  crater  opens  when  another  shuts. 
But  so  I  get  the  laws  against  the 
heretic,  [liam  Howard, 

Spite  of  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  Wil- 
And  others  of  our  Parliament,  re- 
vived, [and  fire — 
I  will  show  fire  on  my  side— stake 
Sharp  work  and  short.    The  knaves 

are  easily  cow'd. 
Follow  their  Majesties. 

[Exit.    The  crowd  following. 

Bag.  As  proud  as  Becket. 

Staf.     You  would   not  have  him 

murder'd  as  Becket  was? 
Bag.    No— murder  fathers  murder: 
but  I  say  [woman  with  us — 

There   is   no   man — there  was  one 
It  was  ft  sin  to  love  her  married,  dead 
I  cannot  choose  but  love  her. 
Staf.  Lady  Jane  ? 

Crowd  (going  off).     God  save  their 
Graceri. 

Staf.  Did  you  see  her  die  - 

Bag.    No,  no;  her  innocent  blood 

had  blmded  me.  [enough. 
You  call  me  too  black-blooded — true 
Her  dark  dead  blood  is  in  my  heart 

with  mine. 
If  ever  I  cry  out  against  the  Pope, 
Her  dark  dead  blood  that  ever  moves 

with  mine  [the  cry. 

Will  stir  the  living  tongue  and  make 
Staf.    Yet  doubtless  you  can  tell 

rue  how  she  died? 
Bag.    Seventeen— and  knew  eight 

languages — in  music 
Peerless — her   needle   perfect,  and 

her  learning  [so  modest, 

Beyond  the  churchmen;  yet  so  meek, 
So  wife-like  humble  to  the  trivial  boy 
Mismatch  d  With  her  tor  policy!  I 

have  heard  [of  him, 

She  would  not  take  a  last  farewell 


QUEEN  MARY. 


480 

She  f ear'd  it  might  unman  him  for  his 
end  [outwoman'd— 
She  could  not  be  unmanned — no  nor 
Seventeen — a  rose  of  grace! 
Girl  never  breathed  to  rival  such  a 

rose;  [a  bud. 

Rose  never  blew  that  equaFd  such  a 
Staf.    Pray  you  go  on. 
Bag.     She  came  upon  the  scaffold, 
And  said  she  was  condemned  to  die 

for  treason;  [those 
She  had  but  followed  the  device  of 
Her  nearest  kin:  she  thought  they 

knew  the  laws  [law, 
But  for  herself,  she  knew  but  little 
And  nothing  of  the  titles  to  the 

crown;  [her  hands. 

She  had  no  desire  for  that,  and  wrung 
And  trusted  God  would  save  her  thro' 
Of  Jesus  Christ  alone.        [the  blood 
Staf.  Pray  you  go  on. 

Bag.    Then  knelt  and  said  the  Mis- 
erere Mei —  [again. 
But  all  in  English,  mark  you;  rose 
And,  when  the  headsman  pray'd  to 

be  forgiven.  [crown  at  last. 

Said,  "You  will  give  me  my  true 
But  do  it  quickly;  "  then  all  wept  but 

she,  [the  block. 

Who  changed  not  color  when  she  saw 
But  awk'd  him,  childlike:  ''WUl  you 

take  it  off  [am,"  he  said. 

Before  I  lay  me  down?"  '"No.  mo,d- 
Gasping;  and  when  her  innocent  eyes 

were  bound. 
She,  with  her  poor  blind  hands  feeling 

— ''where  is  it  ?    [which  followed 
Where  is  it?  " — You  must  fancy  that 
If  you  have  heart  to  do  it! 
Crowd  (in  the  distance).     God  save 

their  Graces! 
JStaf.    Their  Graces,  our  disgraces! 

God  confound  them! 
Why,  she's  grown  bloodier!  when  I 

last  was  here. 
This  was   against  her  conscience — 

would  be  murder! 
Bag.    The  "Thou  shalt  do  no  mur- 
der," which  God's  hand 
Wrote    on    her    conscience,  Mary 

rubb'd  out  pale—  [over  that, 
Bhe  could  not  make  it  white — and 
Traced  in  the  blackest  text  of  Hell — 

"Thou  Shalt!  " 
And  sign'd  it— Mary! 


Acts 

Staf.  Philip  and  the  Pope 

Must  have  sign'd  too.   I  hear  this 

Legate's  coming 
To  bring  us  absolution  from  the  Pope. 
The  Lords  and  Commons  will  bow 

down  before  him — 
You  are  of  the  house  ?  what  will  you 

do.  Sir  Ralph  ?      [than  the  rest, 
Bag.    And  why  should  I  be  bolder 
Or  honester  than  all  ? 

Staf.  But,  sir,  if  I— 

And  over  sea  they  say  this  state  of 

yours  [of  cards  ; 

Hath  no  more  mortise  than  a  tower 
And  that  a  puff  would  do  it— then  if  I 
And   others  made  that  move  I've 

touch'd  upon,  [landing  here, 
Back'd  by  the  power  of  France,  and 
Came  with  a  sudden  splendor,  shout, 

and  show,  [some  bright 

And  dazzled  men  and  deafen'd  by 
Loud  venture,  and  the  people  so  un- 
quiet—  [:  am — 
And  I.  the  race  of  murder'd  Bucking- 
Not  for  myself,  but  for  the  kingdom — 

Sir,  [with  us. 

I  trust  that  you  would  fight  along 
Bag.    No;  you  would  fling  your 

lives  into  the  gulf.       [like  to  do, 
Staf.    But  if  th  s  Philip,  as  he's 
Left  Mary  a  wife-widow  here  alone. 
Set  up  a  viceroy,  sent  his  myriads 

hither  [make  us 

To  seize  upon  the  forts  and  fleet,  and 
A  Spanish  province  ;  would  you  not 

fight  then  ? 
Bag.    I  think  I  should  fight  then. 
Staf.  I  am  sure  of  it. 

Hist  !  there's  the  face  coming  on  here 

of  one  [Fare  you  well. 

Who  knows  me.  I  must  leave  you. 
You'll  hear  of  me  again. 

Bag.    Upon  the  scaffold.  [E.x:eunt. 
Scene     II. — Room     in  Whitehall 
Palace. 

Mary.     Enter  Philip  and  Cardinal 
Pole. 

Pole.  Ave  Maria,  gratia  pier  a, 
Benedicta  tu  in  mulieribus. 

Mary.  Loyal  and  royal  cousin, 
humblest  thanks.  [river  ? 

Had  you  a  pleasant  voyage  up  the 

Pole.  We  had  your  royal  barge, 
and  that  same  chair, 


QUEEX  MARY. 


Scene  2 


QUEEN-  MARY. 


481 


Or  rather  throne  of  purple,  on  the 
deck. 

Our  silver  cross  sparkled  before  the 

prow,  [mond-dance. 
The  ripples  twinkled  at  their  dia- 
The  boats   that    foUow'd,  were  as 

glowing-gay  [of  swans. 

As  regal  gardens  ;  and  your  flocks 
As  fair  and  white  as  angels  ;  and 

your  shores  [Paradise. 
Wore  in  mine  eyes  the  green  of 
My  foreign  friends,  who  dream'd  us 

blanketed  [ed 
In  ever-closing  fog,  were  much  amaz- 
To  find  as  fair  a  sun  as  might  have 

flash'd  [Thames ; 

Upon  their  Lake  of  Garda,  fire  the 
Our  voyage  by  sea  was  all  but  mir- 
acle ;  [sea, 
And  here  the  river  flowing  from  the 
Not  toward  it  (for  they  thought  not 

of  our  tides),  [glide— 
Seem'd  as  a  happy  miracle  to  make 
In     quiet — home     your  banish'd 

countryman,  [in  Flanders,  cousin. 
Mary.  We  heard  that  you  were  sick 
Pole.    A  dizziness. 
Mary.      And  how  came  you  round 

again  ?  [saved  her  life  ; 

Pole.    The  scarlet  thread  of  Rahab 
And  mine,    a  little   letting  of  the 
Mary.    Well  ?  now  ?  [blood. 
Pole.       Ay,  cousin,  as  the  heathen 

giant  [returned— 
Had  but  to  touch  the  ground,  his  force 
Thus,  after  twenty  years  of  banish- 
ment, [my  foot, 
Feeling  my  native  land  beneath 
I  said  thereto  :   "Ah,  native  land  of 

mine,  [of  mine, 

Thou  are  much  beholden  to  this  foot 
That  hastes   with  full  commission 

from  the  Pope 
To  absolve   thee  from  thy  guilt  of 

heresy.  [tainted  me, 

Thou  hast  disgraced  me  and  at- 
And  mark  d  me  ev"n  as  Cain,  and  I 

return  [me  well." 

As  Peter,  but  to  bless  thee  :  make 
Methinks  the  good  land  heard  me, 

for  to-day  [you,  cousin. 

My  heart  beats  twenty,  when  I  see 
Ah,  gentle  cousin,  since  your  Herod's 

death.  [gate  ! 

How  oft  hath  Peter  knock'd  at  Mary's 


And  Mary  would  have  risen  and  let 
him  in,  [the  house 

But,  Mary,  there  were  those  within 
Who  would  not  have  it. 

Mary.         True,  good  cousin  Pole; 
And  there  were  also  those  without 
Who  would  not  have  it.    [the  house 
Pole.  I  believe  so,  cousin. 

State-policy   and  church-policy  are 
conjoint,  [ways. 
But    Janus-faces    looking  diverse 
I  fear  the  Emperor  much  misvalued 
me.  [God, 
But  all  is  well ;  'twas  ev'n  the  will  of 
Who,  waiting  till  the  time  had  ripen'd, 
now,  [''Hail, 
Makes  me  his  mouth  of  holy  greeting. 
Daughter  of  God,  and  saver  of  the 
faith, 

Sit  benedictus  fructus  ventris  tui!  " 
Mary.    Ah,  heaven  ! 
Pole.  Unwell,  your  grace? 

Mary.  No,  cousin,  happy — 

Happy  to  see  you ;  never  yet  so  happy 
Since  I  was  crown'd. 

Pole.  Sweet  cousin,  you  forget 
That  long  low  minster  where  you 

gave  your  hand 
To  this  great  Catholic  King. 
Phi.         Well  said.  Lord  Legate. 
Mary.  Nay,  not  well  said;  I  thought 
of  you,  my  liege, 
Ev'n  as  I  spoke. 

Phi.      Ay,  Madam;  my  Lord  Paget 
Waits  to  present  our  Council  to  the 
Legate.  [us  you. 

Sit  down  here,  all;  Madam,  between 
Pole.     Lo,  now  you  are  enclosed 
with  boards  of  cedar. 
Our  little  sister  of  the  Song  of  Songs! 
You  are  doubly  fenced  and  shielded 

sitting  here 
Between  the  two  most  high-set 
thrones  on  earth,  [boll'dby 
The  Emperor's  highness  happily  sym- 
The  King  your  husband,  the  Pope's 
By  mine  own  self.  [Holiness 

Mary.    True,  cousin,  I  am  happy. 
When  will  you  that  we  summon  both 
our  houses  [lips, 
To  take  this  absolution  from  your 
And  be  regather'd  to  the  Papal  fold? 
Pole.     In  Britain's  calendar  the 
brightest  day  [their  Gods, 

Beheld  our  rough  forefathers  breai 


482 


QVEEK  MARY. 


And  clasp  the  faith  in  Obiist;  but 
after  that  \j)j.est  day? 

Might  not  St.  Andrew  a       ber  hap- 
Mai^.    Then  these  shall  meet  upon 

St.  Andrew's  day. 
Enter  Paget,  w7io  presents  the  Coun- 
cil.   Dumb  show. 
Pole.    I  am  an  old  man  wearied 
with  my  journey,  [withdraw 
Ev'n  with  my  joy.    Permit  me  to 
To  Lambeth?  [Cranmer. 

Phi.  Ay,  Lambeth  has  ousted 

It  was  not  meet  the  heretic  swine 
In  Lambeth.  [should  live 

Mary.  There  or  any  where,  or  at  all. 
Phi.    We  have  had  it  swept  and 

garnish'd  after  him. 
Pole.    Not  for  the  seven  devils  to 
enter  in?  [in  the  swine. 

Phi.    No,  for  we  trust  they  parted 
Pole.    True,  and  I  am  the  Angel  of 
Farewell,  your  Graces.      [the  Pope. 

Phi.  Nay,  not  here — to  me ; 

I  will  go  with  you  to  the  waterside. 
Pole.    Not  be  my  Charon  to  the 

counter  side? 
Phi.    No,  my  Lord  Legate,  the  Lord 

Chancellor  goes. 
Pole.    And  unto  no  dead  world  ; 
but  Lambeth  palace,  [faith. 
Henceforth  a  centre  of  the  living 
[Exeunt  Philip,  Pole,  Paget,  etc. 
Manet  Mary. 
He  hath  awaked!  he  hath  awaked! 
He  stirs  within  the  darkness! 
Oh,  Philip,  husband !  now  thy  love  to 
mine  [manners  thaw. 

Will  cling  more  close,  and  those  bleak 
That  makes  me  shamed  and  tongue- 
tied  in  my  love. 
The  second  Prince  of  Peace — 
The  great  unborn  defender  of  the 
Faith, 

Who  will  avenge  me  of  mine  enemies- 
He  comes,  and  my  star  rises,  [lands, 
Th«  stormy  Wyatts  and  Northumber- 
The  proud  ambitions  of  Elizabeth, 
And  all  her  fieriest  partisans — are 
pale 

Before  my  star  !      [wanes  and  dies: 
The  light    of    this    new  learning 
The  ghosts  of  Luther  and  Zuinglius 
fade  [their  doom 

^.nto   the   deathless   hell  which  is 


Before  my  star  !  [to  Ind  I 

His  sceptre  shall  go  forth  from  Ind 
His   sword   shall  hew  the  heretic 

peoples  down  !  [will  be  his, 

His  faith  shall  clothe  the  world  that 
Like  universal   air  and  sunshine  I 

Open,  [here  !— 

Ye  everlasting  gates  !  The  King  i» 
My  star,  my  son ! 

Enter  Philip,  Duke  of  Alva,  etc. 

Oh,  Philip,  come  with  me  ; 
Good  news  have  I  to  tell  you,  news 

to  make  [too. 
Both  of  us  happy— ay  the  Kingdom 
Nay  come  with  me — one  moment! 

Phi.  {to  Alva).  More  than  that: 
There  was  one  here  of  late — William 

the  Silent  [in  talk, 

They  call  him— he  is  free  enough 
But  tells  me  nothing.  You  will  be,  W6 

trust,  [inces — 

Some  time  the  viceroy  of  those  prov- 
He  must  deserve  his  surname  better. 

Alva.  Ay,  sir  ; 

Inherit  the  Great  Silence. 

Phi.  True  ;  the  provinces 

Are  hard  to  rule  and  must  be  hardly 

ruled  ;  [rind. 
Most  fruitful,  yet,  indeed,  an  empty 
All  hollowed  out  with  stinging  her- 
esies ;.  [fight: 
And  for  their  heresies,  Alva,  they  will 
You  must  break  them  or  they  break 

you. 

Alva,  {proudly).  The  first. 

Phi.    Good  I 
Well,  Madam,  this  new  happiness  of 
mine.  [Exeunt. 
Enter  Three  Pages. 

1  Page.    News,  mates  !  a  miracle  ! 
a  miracle  !  news  ! 

The  bells  must  ring  ;  Te  Deum«  must 
be  sung  ;  [her  babe  ! 

The  Queen  hath  felt  the  motion  of 

2  Page.    Ay  ;  but  see  here  ! 

1  Prge.         See  what  ? 

2  Pa-ie.  This  paper,  Dickon. 
I  found  it  fiuttering  at  the  palace 

gates  : —  [of  a  dead  dog  !'' 

''The  Queen  of  England  is  delivered 
8  Page.    These  are  the  things  that 

madden  her.    Fie  upon  it. 
1  Page.    Ay  ;  but  I  hear  she  hath  a 
dropsy,  lad,  [call 
Or  a  high-dropsy,  as   the  doctors 


QUEEN  MARY.  4R1 


Scene  3 

3  Page,    Fie  on  her  dropsy,  so  she 
have  a  dropsy  !  [me. 
I  know  that  she  was  ever  sweet  to 
1  Page.   For  thou  and  thine  are 
Roman  to  the  core.    [Take  heed  ! 
3  Page.  So  thou  and  thine  must  be. 
1  Page.  Not  I. 

And  whether  this  flash  of  news  be 
false  or  true,  [revelry. 
So  the    wine    run,    and  there  be 
Content  am  1.    Let  all  the  steeples 
clash. 

Till  the  sun  dance,  as  upon  Easter 
Day.  [Exeunt. 
Scene  III. — Great  Hall  in  Whitehall. 
[At   the   far  end  a  dais.     On  this 
three  chairs,  two  under  one  canopy 
for  Mary  and  Philip,  another  07i  the 
right  of  these  for  Pole.     Under  the 
diaaon  Pole's  side.,  ranged  along  the 
wall.,  sit  all  the  jSpirital  Peers,  and 
along  the  wall  opposite,  all  the  Tem- 
poral.     The     Commons   on  cross 
benches  in  front,  a  line  of  approach 
to  the  dais  between  them.    In  the 
foreground  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  and 
other  Members  of  the  Commons. 
^  Mem.  St.  Andrew's  day;  sit  close, 
sit  close,  we  are  friends,    [again  ? 
Is  reconciled  the  word  ?  The  Pope 
It  must  be  thus  ;  and  yet,  cocksbody ! 

how  strange  [of  us 

That  Gardiner,  once  so  one  with  all 
Against  this  foreign  marriage,  should 
have  yielded  [still  that  he. 

So  utterly! — strange!  but  stranger 
So  fierce  against  the  Headship  of  the 
Pope,  [pageant 
Should  play  th^  second  actor  in  this 
That  brings  him  in;  such  a  chameleon 
he! 

2  Mem.  This  Gardiner  turn'd  his 
coat  in  Henry's  time  ; 

The  serpent  that  hath  slough'd  will 
slough  again.  [pents. 

3  Mem.    Tut,  then  we  are  all  ser- 
2  Mem.  Speak  for  yourself. 
^  Mem.    Ay,  and  for  Gardiner!  be- 
ing English  citizen. 

How  should  he  bear  a  bridegroom 

out  of  Spain? 
The  Queen  would  have  him!  being 

English  churchman,  [the  Pope  ? 
How  should  he  bear  the  headship  of 


The  Queen  would  have  it !  Statesmen 
that  are  wise  [clay, 
Shape  a  necessity,  as  the  sculptor 
To  their  own  model. 

2  Mem.  Statesmen  that  are  wise 
Take  truth  herself  for  model,  what 

say  you? 

[To  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 
Bag.    We  talk  and  talk.  [talkf 

1  Mem.  Ay,  and  what  use  to 
Philip's  no  sudden  alien— the  Queen's 

husband,  [cocksbody! 
He's  here,  and  king,  or  will  be, — yet 
So  hated  here!    I  watch'd  a  hive  of 

late;  [my  young  boy; 

My  seven-years'  friend  was  with  me. 
Out  crept  a  wasp,  with  half  the  swarm 

behind.  [rogue 
"Philip,"  says  he.  I  had  to  cuff  the 
For  infant  treason. 

3  Mem.  But  they  say  that  bees, 
If  any  creeping  life  invade  their  hive 
Too  gross  to  be  thrust  out,  will  build 

him  round  [their  combs. 

And  bind  him  in  from  harming  of 
And  Philip  by  these  articles  is  bound 
From  stirring  hand  or  foot  to  wrong 

the  realm. 

2  3fem.    By  bonds  of  beeswax,  I  ke 
your  creeping  thing; 

But  your  wise  bees  had  stung  him 
first  to  death. 
Z  Mem.    Hush,  hush! 
You  wrong  the  Chancellor:  the  claus- 
es added  [or  sent  us 
To  that  same  treaty  which  the  emper- 
Were  mainly  Gardiner's:    that  no 
foreigner                 [forts,  army; 
Hold  office  in  the  household,  fleet, 
That  if  the  Queen  should  die  without 
a  child,  [dissolved; 
The  bond  between  the  kingdoms  be 
That  Philip  should  not  mix  us  any 
With  his  French  wars—  [way 

2  Mem.  Ay,  ay,  but  what  securi- 
Good  sir,  for  this,  if  Philip —  [ty, 

3  Mem,.  Peace— the  Queen, 
Philip,  and  Pole.  [All  rise,  ami  stand. 

Enter  Mary,  Philip,  and  Pole. 
[Gardiner  conducts  them,  to  the  three 

chairs  of  state.    Philip  sifs  on  the 

Queen's  left,  Pole  on  her  right. 
Gard.    Our  short-lived  sun,  before 

his  winter  plunge,  [drew's  day. 
Laughs  at  the  last  red  leaf,  and  An* 


484 

Mary.    Should  not  this  day  be  held 
in  after  years 
More  solemn  tlian  of  old? 

Phi.  Madam,  my  wish 

Echoes  your  Majesty's. 
Pole.  It  shall  be  so. 

Oard.    Mine    echoes     both  your 
Grace's,  {aside)  but  the  Pope- 
Can  we  not  have  the  Catholic  church 
as  well  [cannot, 
Without  as  with  the  Italian?  if  we 
Why  then  the  Pope. 

My  lords  of  the  upper  house, 
iud  ye,  my  masters,  oi  the  lower 
house,  [resolved  ? 

Do  ye  stand  fast  by  that  which  ye 
Voices.    We  do.  [supplicate 
Oard.    And  be  you  all  one  mind  to 
The  Legate  here  for  pardon,  and  ac- 
knowledge 
The  primacy  of  the  Pope? 

Voices.  We  are  all  one  mind. 

Gard.    Then  must  I  play  the  vassal 
to  this  Pole.  [Aside. 

[He  draws  a  paper  from  under  his 
robes  and  presents  it  to  th9  King 
and  Queen,  who  look  through  it 
and  return  it  to  him  ;  then  ascends 
a  tribune,  and  reads. 
We,  the  Lords  Spiritual  and  Tem- 
poral, [assembled, 
And  Commons  here  in  Parliament 
Presenting  the  whole  body  of  this 
realm  [same, 
Of  England,  and  dominions  of  the 
Do  make  most  humble  suit  unto  your 
Majesties,  [state, 
In  our  own  name  and  that  of  all  the 
That  by  your  gracious  means  and  in- 
tercession" 
Our  supplication  be  exhibited 
To  the  Lord  Cardinal  Pole,  sent  here 
as  Legate  [Pope, 
From  our  most  holy  father  Julius, 
And  from  the  apostolic  see  of  Rome; 
And  do  declare  our  penitence  and 
grief  [dience. 
For  our  lon^   schism  and  disobe- 
Either  in  makmg  laws  and  ordinances 
Against  the  Holv  Father's  primacy, 
Or  else  by  doing  or  by  speaking 
aught  [same ; 

Which  might  impugn  or  prejudice  the 
By  this  our  supplication  promising, 


Act^ 

As  well  for  our  own  selves  as  all  the 
realm,  [quick. 
That  now  we  be  and  ever  shall  be 
Under    and    with   your  Majesties' 

authorities. 
To  do  to  the  utmost  all  that  in  us  lies 
Towards  the  abrogation  and  repeal 
Of  all  such  laws   and  ordinances 
made;  [ties. 
Whereon  we  humbly  pray  your  Maj  es- 
As  persons  undefiled  with  our  offence. 
So  to  set  forth  this  humble  suit  of 
ours  [sion 
That  we  the  rather  by  your  interces- 
May  from  the  apostolic  see  obtain. 
Thro'  this  most  reverend  Father,  ab- 
solution, [censures 
And  full  release  from  danger  of  all 
Of  Holy  Church  that  we  be  f  all'n  into. 
So  that  we  may,  as  children  penitent. 
Be  once  again  received   into  the 
bosom 

And  unity  of  Universal  Church; 
And  .that  this  noble  realm  thro'  after 
years 

May  in  this  unity  and  obedience 
Unto  the  holy  see  and  reigning  Pope 
Served  God  and  both  your  Majesties. 
Voices.  Amen.    [All  sd. 

[He  again  presents  the  petition  to  the 
King  and  Queen,  who  hand  it  reve- 
rentially to  Pole. 
Pole  (sitting).  This  is  the  loveliest 
day  that  ever  smiled 
On  England.  All  her  breath  should, 
incense  like,  [of  Him 

Rise  to  the  heavens  in  grateful  praise 
Who  now  recalls  her  to  his  ancient 
fold.  „  [given 

Lo !  once  again  God  to  this  realm  hath 
A  token  of  His  more  especial  Grace; 
For  as  this  people  were  the  first  of 
all  [church 
The  islands  call'd  into  the  dawning 
Out  of    the  dead,  deep  night  of 

heathendom. 
So  now  are  these  the  first  whom  God 
hath  given  [schism; 
Grace  to  repent  and  sorrrow  for  their 
Aud  if  your  penitence  be  not  mock- 
ery, [joice 
Oh  how  the  blessed  angels  who  re- 
Over  one  saved  do  triumph  at  this 
hour 

In  the  reborn  salvation  of  a  land 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Scene  3 


QUEEN-  MARY. 


485 


So  noble.  {A  pause. 

For  ourselves  we  do  protest 
That  our  commission  is  to  heal,  not 

harm;  [cile; 
We  come  not  to  condemn,  but  recon- 
We  corae  not   to  compel,  but  call 

again ; 

We  come  not  to  destroy,  but  edify; 
Nor  yet  to  question  things  already 

done;  [past — 

These  are  forgiven — matters  of  the 
And  range  with  jetsam  and  with  offal 

thrown 

Into  the  blind  sea  of  forgetfulness. 

\_A  pause. 

Ye  have  reversed  the  attainder  laid 
on  us  [and  we. 

By  him  who  sack'd  the  house  of  God; 
Amplier  than  any  field  on  our  poor 
earth  [sown. 
Can  render  thanks  in  fruit  for  being- 
Do  here  and  now  repay  you  sixty-fold, 
A  hundred,  yea,  a  thousand  thousand 
With  heaven  for  earth.  [fold, 

[Rising   and   stretching  forth  his 
hands.    All  kneel  hut  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall,  who  rises  and  remains 
standing. 
The  Lord  who  hath  redeemed  us 
With  his  own  blood,  and  wash'd  us 
from  our  sins,  [bride; 
To  purchase  for  himself  a  stainless 
He,  whom  the  Father  hath  appointed 
Head  [absolve  you! 

Of  all  his  church.  He  by  His  mercy 
[A  pause. 

And  we  by  that  authority  Apostolic 
Given  unto  us,  his  Legate,  by  the 
Pope, 

Our  Lord  and  Holy  Father,  Julius, 
God's  Vicar  and  Vicegerent  upon 
earth, 

Do  here  absolve  you  and  deliver  you 
And  every  one  of  you,  and  all  the 
realm 

And  its  dominions  from  all  heresy, 
All  schism,  and  from  all  and  every 
censure,  [upon; 
Judgment,  and  pain  accruing  there- 
And  also  we  restore  you  to  the  bosom 
And  unity  of  Universal  Church. 

[Turning  to  Gardiner, 
Our  letters  of  commission  will  de- 
clare this  plainlier. 


[Queen  heard  sobbing.      Cries  of 
Amen  !  Amen  I   Some  of  the  mem- 
bers embrace  one  another.    All  but 
Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  pass  out  in- 
to the  neighboring  chapel.,  whence 
is  heard  the  Te  Deum.  • 
Bag.   We  strove  against  the  papacy 
from  the  first,         [ward's  time, 
In  William's  time,  in  our  first  Ed- 
And  in  my  master  Henry's  time;  but 
now, 

The  unity  of  Universal  Church, 
Mary  would  have  it  ;  and  this  Gar- 
diner follows  ; 
The  unity  of  Universal  Hell, 
Philip  would  have  it  ;  and  this  Gar- 
diner follows  ! 
A  Parliament  of  imitative  apes  ! 
Sheep  at  the  gap  which  Gardiner 
takes,  who  not  believe— 
Believes  the  Pope,  nor  any  of  them 
These  spaniel-Spaniard  English  of  the 
time,  [dust, 
Who  rub  their  fawning  noses  in  the 
For  that  is  Philip's  gold-dust,  and 
adore  [had  been 

This  Vicar  of  their  Vicar.     Would  I 
Born  Spaniard  !  I  had  held  my  head 
up  then, 

I  am  ashamed  that  I  am  Bagenhall, 
English. 

Enter  Officer. 
Of.         Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 
Bag.  What  of  that  ? 

Of.    You  were  the  one  sole  man  in 
either  house  [houses  fell. 

Who  stood  upright  when  both  the 
Bag.    The  houses  fell  ! 
Of  I  mean  the  houses  knelt 

Before  the  Legate. 

Bag.      Do  not  scrimp  your  phrase. 
But  stretch  it  wider  ;  say  when  Eng- 
land fell.  [man  who  stood. 
Of.    I  say  you  were  the  one  sole 
Baq.    I  am  the  one  sole  man  in 
either  house  [a  son. 
Perchance  in  England,  loves  her  like 
Of.    Well,  you  one  man,  because 
you  stood  upright,  [to  the  Tower. 
Her  Grace  the  Queen  C(^mmands  you 
Bag.    As  traitor,  or  as  heretic,  or 
for  wnat  ?  [be 
Of    If  any  man  in  any  way  would 
The  one  man  he  shall  be  so  to  his 
cost. 


486 


QUEEN 


MARY. 


ActZ 


Bag.    What  !    will   she  have  my 
head  ? 

Of.  A  round  flne  likelier. 

Your  pardon.    [Calling  to  Atteiidant. 

By  the  river  to  the  Tower. 
•  [Exeunt. 
Scene  IV. — Whitehall.    A  Room  in 
the  Palace. 
M^ry,     Gardiner,     Pole,  Paget, 

Bonner,  etc. 
Mary.    The  king  and  I,  my  Lords, 

now  that  all  traitors  [the  heads 
Against  our  royal  state  have  lost 
Wherewith  they  plotted    in  their 

treasonous  malice. 
Have  talked  together  and  are  well 

agreed  [lardism 
That  those  old  statutes  touching  Lol- 
To  bring  the  heretic  to  the  stake, 

should  be  [quicken'd. 
No  longer   a   dead  letter,  but  re- 
One  of  the  Council.  Why,  what  hath 

fluster'd  Gardiner  ?  how  he  rubs 
His  forelock. 
Paget.  I  have  changed  a  word 

with  him  [again. 
In  coming,  and  may  change  a  word 
Gard.    Madam,  your  Highness  is 

our  sun,  the  King  [one  ; 

And  you  together  our  two  suns  in 
And  so  the  beams  of  both  may  shine 

upon  us,  [feel  your  light. 

The  faith  that  seem'd  to  droop  will 
Lift  head,  and  flourish  ;  yet  not  light 

alone,  [heat  enough 

Therrf  must  be  heat — there  must  be 
To  scorch  and  wither  heresy  to  the 

root.  [to  come  in." 

For  what  saith  Christ  ?  ''Compel  them 
And  what  saith  Paul?    "I  would 

they  were  cut  off  [ter  live  ! 

That  trouble  you."  Let  the  dead  let- 
Trace  it  in  fire,  that  all  the  louts  to 

whom  [grooms 
Their  A  B  C  is  darkness,  clowns  and 
May  read  it  !  so  you  quash  rebellion 

too. 

For  heretic  and  traitor  are  all  one  : 
Two  vipers  of  one  breed— an  amphis- 

boena,  [letter  burn  ! 

Each  end   a    sting :    let  the  dead 
Pag.    Yet  there  be  some  disloyal 

Catholics,  [throats 
And  many   heretics  loyal  ;  heretic 


Cried  no  God-bless-her  to  the  Lady 

Jane,  [be 
But  shouted  in  Queen  Mary,  So  there 
Some  traitor-heretic,  there  is  axe  and 

cord.  [are  loyal, 

To  take  the  lives  of  others  that 
And  by    the   churchman's  pitiless 

doom  of  fire,  ^rown. 
Were  but  a  thankless  policy  in  th© 
Ay,  and  against  itself  ;  for  there  are 

many. 

Mary.  If  we  could  burn  out  heresy, 
my  Lord  Paget,       [of  England— 
We  reck  not  tho'  we  lost  this  crown 
Ay  !  tho'  it  were  ten  Englands  ! 

Gcn^d.  Right,  your  Grace. 

Paget,  you  are  all  for  this  poor  life  of 
ours. 

And  care  but  little  for  the  life  to  be. 
Paget.    I   have   some   time,  for 

curiousness,  my  Lord, 
Watch' d  children  playing  at  their  life 

to  be, 

And  cruel  at  it,  killing  helpless  flies; 
Such  is  our  time — all  times  for  aught 
I  know.  [sting  the  soul — 

Gard.    We  kill  the  heretics  that 
They,  with  right  reason,  flies  that 
prick  the  flesh. 
Paget.    They  had  not  reach'd  right 
reason ;  little  children ! 
They  kiU'd  but  for  their  pleasure  and 
They  felt  in  killing.  [the  power 

Gard.         A  spice  of  Satan,  ha ! 
Why.  good!  what  then?  granted! — 

we  are  fallen  creatures; 
Look  to  your  Bible,  Paget!  we  are 
fallen.  [Lord  Bishop, 

Paget.   I  am  but  of  the  laity,  my 
And  may  not  read  your  Bible,  yet  I 
found  [tie  children. 

One  day  a  wholesome  scripture,  "Lit- 
Love  one  another." 

Gard.  Did  you  find  a  scripture, 
"I  come  not  to  bring  peace  but  a 
sword  "  ?  The  sword  [Paget, 
Is  in  her  Grace's  hand  to  smite  with. 
You  stand  up  here  to  fight  for  heresy 
You  are  more  than  guess'd  at  as  a, 
heretic,  [true  faith 

And  on  the  steep  up-track   of  the 
Your  lapses  are  far  seen. 
Paget.         The  faultless  Gardiner! 
Mary.  You  brawl  beyond  the  ques- 
tion; speak,  Lord  Legate. 


Scene  4 

Pole.    Indeed,  I  cannot  follow  with 
your  Grace,  [not  kill 

Rather  would  say — the  shepherd  doth 
The  sheep  that  wander  from  his  flock, 
but  sends  [fold, 
His  careful  dog:  to  bring  them  to  the 
Look  to  the  Netherlands,  wherein 
have  been  [end  ? 

Such  holocausts  of  heresy  !  to  what 
For  yet  the  faith  is  not  established 
Gard.    The  end's  not  come,  [there. 
Pole.    No — nor  this  way  will  come. 
Seeing  there  lie  two  ways  to  every 
end,  [here 
A  better  and  a  worse— the  worse  is 
To  persecute,  because  to  persecute 
Makes  a  faith  hated,  and  is  further- 
more 

No  perfect  witness  of  a  perfect  faith 
In  him  who  persecutes:  when  men 

are  tost  [sure 
On  tides  of  strange  opinion,  and  not 
Of  their  own  selves,  they  are  wroth 

with  their  own  selves. 
And  thence  with  others;  then,  who 

lights  the  fagot  ? 
Not  the  full  faith,  no,  but  the  lurking 

doubt.  [the  Church, 

Old  Rome,  that  first  made  martyrs  in 
Trembled  for  her  own  gods,  for  these 

were  trembling— 
But  when  did  our  Rome  tremble  ? 

Paget.  Did  she  not 

In  Henry's  time  and  Edward's  ? 

Pole.  What,  my  Lord  ! 

The  Church  on  Peter's  rock  ?  never  ! 

I  have  seen 
A  pine  in  Italy  that  cast  its  shadow 
AtJiwart  a  cataract;  firm  stood  the 

pine —  [my  mind, 

The  cataract  shook  the  shadow.  To 
The  cataract  typed   the  headlong 

plunge  and  fall  [Rome. 
Of  heresy  to  the  pit:  the  pine  was 
You  see,  my  Lords,  [trembled; 
It  was  the  shadow  of  the  Church  that 
Your  church  was  but  the  shadow  of 
Wanting  the  triple  mitre,  [a  church, 
Gard.  {muttering).  Here  be  tropes. 
Pole.    And   tropes   are   good  to 

clothe  a  naked  truth. 
And  make  it  look  more  seemly. 
Gard.  Tropes  again  ! 

Pole.    You    are    hard    to  please. 

Then  without  tropes  my  Lord, 


487 

An  overmuch  severeness,  T  repeat, 
When  faith  is  wavering  mak<3S  the 
waverer  pass  [doctrines 
Into  the  more  settled  hatred  of  the 
Of  those  who  rule,  which  hatred  by 
and  by  [to  lignt 

Involves  the  ruler  (thus  there  springs 
That  Centaur  of  a  monstrous  com- 
monweal, [may  quail, 
The  traitor-heretic)  then  tho'  some 
Yet  others  are  that  dare  the  stake 
and  fire,               [borne,  begets 
And  their   strong  torment  bravely 
An  admiration  and  an  indignation. 
And  hot  desire  to  imitate  ;    so  the 
plague                  [three  or  four 
Of  schism  spreads  ;  were  there  but 
Of  these  misleaders,  yet  I  would  not 
say 

Burn  !  and   we  cannot  burn  whole 

towns  ;  they  are  many 
As  my  Lord  Paget  says. 
Gard.         Yet  my  Lord  Cardinal— 
Pole.    I  am  your  Legate  ;  pleassj 
you  let  me  finish.  [regimen 
Methinks  that  under  our  Queen's 
We  might  go  sof  tlier  than  with  crim- 
son rowel  [Henry  first 
And  streaming  lash.    When  Herod- 
Began    to    batter   at  your  English 
Church,            [judgment  on  her. 
This  was  the  cause,  and  hence  the 
She  seethed  with  such  adulteries,  and 
the  lives  [so  foul 
Of  many  among  your  churchmenwere 
That  heaven  wept  and  earth  blush'd. 

I  would  advise 
That  we  should  thoroughly  cleanse 
the  Church  within  [quicken'd. 
Before  these  bitter  statutes  be  re- 
So  after  that  when  she  once  more  is 
seen  [of  Christ, 

White  as  the  light,  the  spotless  bride 
Like  Christ  himaelf  on  Tabor,  pos- 
sibly [again  ; 
The  Lutheran  may  be  won  to  her 
Till  when,  my  Lords,  I  counsel  tol- 
erance,               [hand,  my  Lord, 
Gard.    What  if  a  mad  dog  bit  your 
Would  you  not  chop  the  bitten  fin- 
ger off,               [with  the  poison  ? 
Lest  your  whole  body  should  madden 
I  would  not,  were  I  Queen,  tolerate 
the  heretic,  [land 
No,  not  an  hour.     The    ruler  of  a 


QUEEN  MARY. 


488 

Is  bounden  by  his  power  and  place  to 
see  [them  ! 

His  people  be  not  poisen'd.  Tolerate 

Why  ?  do  they  tolerate  you  ?  Nay, 
many  of  them  [call  they  not 

Would  burn— have  burnt  each  other  ; 

The  one  true  faith,  a  loathsome  idol- 
worship  ? 

Beware,  Lord  Legate,  of  a  heavier  crime 
Then  heresy  is  itself  ;  beware  I  say. 
Lest  men  accuse  you  of  indifference 
To  all  faith,  all  religion ;  for  you  know 
Right  well  that   you  yourself  have 

been  supposed 
Tainted  with  Lutheranism  in  Italy. 
Pole  {angered).    But  you,  my  Lord, 

beyond  all  supposition. 
In  clear  and   open  day   were  con- 

grueat 

With  that  vile  Cranmer  in  the  accurs- 
ed lie  [the  spring 
Of  good  Queen  Catherine's  divorce— 
Of  all  those  evils  that  have  flow'd 
upon  us  ;  [tyrant, 
For  you  yourself  have  truckled  to  the 
And  done  your  best  to  bastardize  our 
Queen,                    [fell  upon  you 
For  which  God's  righteous  judgment 
In  your  five  years  of  imprisonment, 
my  Lord,  [ster'd  up 
Under  young  Edward.  Who  so  bol- 
The  gross   King's  h  adship  of  the 

Church,  or  more 
Denied  the  Holy  father  ! 

Gard.  Ha  !  what  !  eh  ? 

But  you,  my  Lord,  a  polish'd  gentle- 
man, [tussle, 
A  bookman,  flying  from  the  heat  and 
You  lived    among  your  vines  and 
oranges,  [sent  for. 

In  your  soft  Italy  yonder!  You  were 
You  were  appeal'd  to,  but  you  still 
preferred  [did 
Your  learned  leisure.  As  for  what  I 
I  suffer'd  and  repented.  You,  Lord 
Legate  [to  learn 

And  Cardinal-Deacon,  have  not  now 
That  ev'n  St.  Peter  in  his  time  of  fear 
Denied  his  Master,  ay,  and  thrice, 
my  Lord.  [years,  my  Lord. 

Pole.    But  not  for  five  and  twenty 
Gard.    Ha  !  good  !  it  seems  then  I 
was  summon'd  hither 
But  to  be  mock'd  and  baited.  Speak, 
friend  Bonner, 


Act^ 

And  tell  this  learned  Legato  ho  lacks 
zeal. 

The  Church's  evil  is  not  as  the  King's. 
Cannot  be  heal'd  by  stroking.  The 

mad  bite  [and  at  once. 

Must  have  the  cautery — tell  him — 
What  wouldst  thou  do  hadstthou  his 

power,  thou  [with  me. 

That  layest  so  long  in  heretic  bonds 
Wouldst  thou  not  burn  and  blast 

them  root  and  branch  ? 
Bon.    Ay,  after  you,  my  Lord. 
Gard.    Nay,  God  s  passion,  before 

me  !  speak.  [them  flame. 

Bon.    I  am   on   fire   until   I,  see 
Gard.    Ay,  the  psalm-singing  weav- 
ers, cobblers,  scum—  [genet, 
But  this  most  noble  prince  Planta- 
Our  good  Queen's  cousin — dallying 

over  seas  [noble  mother's 

Even  when  his  brother's,  nay,  his 
Head  fell— 

Pole.         Peace,  mad  man  ! 
Thou  stirrest  up  a  grief  thou  canst 

not  fathom.  [Chancellor 
Thou  Christian  Bishop,  thou  Lord 
Of  England  ?    no  more    rein  upon 

thine  anger  [ashamed 
Than  any  child !  Thou  mak'st  me  much 
That  I  was  for  a  moment  wroth  at 

thee.  [give  me  feuds, 

Mary,  I  come  for  counsel  and  ye 
Like  d  gs  that   set  to  watch  their 

master's  gate, 
Fall,  when  the  thief  is  ev'n  within 

the  walls  [Chancellor, 
To  worrying  one  another.  My  Lord 
You  have  an  old  trick  of  offending 

us  ;  [with  us 

And  but  that  you  are  art  and  part 
In  purging  heresy,  well  we  might,  for 

this  [the  Legate, 

Your  violence  and  much  roughness  to 
Have  shut  you  from  our  counsels. 

Cousin  Pole,  [Retire  with  me. 
You  are  fresh  from  brighter  lands. 
His  highness  and  myself  (so  you  allow 

us)  [cy 
Will  let  you  learn  in  peace  and  priva- 
What  power  tnis  cooler  son  of  Eng- 
land hath  [pray  Heaven 
In  breeding  Godless  vermin.  And 
That  you  may  see  according  to  our 
Come,  cousin.  [sight. 

[Exeunt  Queen  and  Pole,  etc. 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Scene  5 

Gard.        Pole  has  the  Plantagenet 
face.  [mightiest  kings. 

But  not  the  force  made  them  our 
Fine   eyes — but    melancholy,  irres- 
olute—  [fine  beard. 
1  fine  beard,   Bonner,  a  very  full 
iiut  a  weak  mouth,  an  indetermin- 
ate— ha  ?  [chance. 
Bon.    Well,    a  weak  mouth,  per- 
Gard.                  And  not  like  thine 
To  gorge  a  heretic  whole,  roasted  or 
raw.                    [yet  the  Legate 
Bon.    I  d  do  my  best,  my  Lord;  but 
Ts  here  as  Pope  and  Master  of  the 

Church, 
And  if  he  go  not  with  you — 

Gard.  Tut,  Master  Bishop, 

Our  bashful  Legate,  saw'st  not  how 

he  flushed  ? 
Touch  him  upon  his  old  heretical  talk, 
He'll  burn  a  diocese   to  prove  his 
orthodoxy.  [those  times. 

And  let  him  call   me  truckler.  In 
Thou  knowest  we  had  to  dodge,  or 
duck,  or  die  ;  [Church  ; 

I  kept   my  head   for  use  of  Holy 
And  see  you,  we  shall  have  to  dodge 
again,  [and  plunge 

And  let  the  Pope  trample  our  rights. 
His  foreign   fist    into    our  island 
Church 

To  plumb  the  leaner  pouch  of  Italy. 
For  at  me,  for  a  time,  [put  in  force, 
Why  ?  that  these  statutes  may  be 
And  that  his  fan  may  thoroughly 

purge  his  floor. 
Bon.    So  then  you  hold  the  Pope — 
Gard.  I  hold  the  Pope ! 

"What  do  I  hold  him  ?  what  do  I  hold 

the  Pope  ?  [Cardinal's  fault- 
Come,  come,  the  morsel  stuck — this 
I  have  gulpt  it  down.    I  am  waolly 

for  the  Pope, 
Utterly  and  altogether  for  the  Pope, 
The  Eternal  Peter  of  the  cJiangeless 

chair,  [king  of  kings, 

Crown'd  slave  of  slaves,  and  mitred 
God  upon  earth  !  what  more  ?  what 

would  you  have  ? 
Hence,  let's  be  gone. 

Enter  Usher. 
JJsh.       Well  that  you  be  not  gone, 
My  Lord.    The  Queen,  most  wroth  at 

first  with  you,  [forgiveness. 
Is  now  content  to  grant   you  full 


489 

So  that  you  crave  full  pardon  of  the 

Legate. 
I  am  sent  to  fetch  you. 

Gard.  Doth  Pole  yield,  ha  I 
Did  you  hear  'em  ?  were  you  by  ? 

C767i.  I  cannot  tell  you. 

His  bearing  is  so  courtly  delicate  ; 
And  yet  niethinks  he  falters  :  their 

two  Graces  [him, 
Do  so  dear-cousin  and  royal-cousin 
So  press  on  him  the  duty  which  as 

Legate  [royal  smiles — 

He  owes  himself,  and    with  such 
Gard.    Smiles    that    burn  men. 

Bonner,  it  will  be  carried. 
He  falters,  ha  ?  'fore  God  we  change 

and  change  ;  [tors  tell  you, 

Men  now  are  bow'd  and  old,  the  doc- 
At  three-score  years  ;    then  if  we 

change  at  all  [an  age 

We  needs  must  do  it  quickly  ;  it  is 
Of  brief  life,  and  brief  purpose,  and 

brief  patience,  [for  it 

As  I  have  shown  to-day.  I  am  sorry 
If  Pole  be  like  to  turn.  Our  old  friend 

Cranmer,  [so  often, 

Your  more  especial  love,  hath  turn'd 
He  knows  not  where  he  stands,  which, 

if  this  pass,  ["em  look  to  it, 

We  two  shall  have  to  teach'him  ;  let 
Crammer  and   Hooper,  Ridley  and 

Latimer,  [is  come, 

Rogers  and  Ferrar,  for  their  time 
Their  hour  is  hard  at  hand,  their 

"dieslrae,"  [their  sect. 

Their  "dies  Ilia,"  which  will  test 
I  feel  it  but  a  duty — you  will  find  in 

it  [Bonner. — 

Pleasure  as  well  as  duty,  worthy 
To  test  their  sect.    Sir,  I  attend  the 

Queen  [most 
To  crave  most  humble  pardon — of  her 
Royal,  Infallible,  Papal  Legate-cousin. 

[Exeunt 


Scene  Y.— Woodstock. 

Elizabeth,  Lady  in  Waiting. 

Lady.   The  colors  of  our  Queen  are 

green  and  white, 
These    fields    are   only  green,  they 

make  me  gape. 
Miz.   There's  whitethorn,  girl, 
Lady.      Ay,  for  an  hour  in  May. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Acts 


But  court  Is  always  May,  buds  out  in 
masks,  [flowers 
Breaks  into  f  eather'd  merriments, and 
In  silken  pageants.     Why  do  they 

keep  us  here? 
Why  still  suspect  your  Grace? 
Eliz.    Hard  upon  both. 

[  Writes  on  the  ivindow  with  a  dia- 
mond. 
Much  suspected,  of  me 
Nothing  proven  can  be. 

Quoth  Elizabeth,  prisoner. 
Lady.    What  hath  your  Highness 
written? 

Eliz.  A  true  rhyme. 

LoAy.  Cut  with  a  diamond;  so  to 
last  like  truth, 

Eliz.    Ay,  if  truth  last.  [out, 

Lady.  But  truth,  they  say,  will 
60  it  must  last.  It  is  not  like  a  word. 
That  comes  and  goes  in  uttering. 

Eliz.  Truth,  a  word ! 

The  very  Truth  and  very  Word  are 
one.  [at,  girl. 

But  truth  of  story,  which  I  glanced 
Is  like  a  word  that  comes  from  olden 
days,  [tongue 
And  passes  thro'  the  peoples:  every 
Alters  it  passing,  till  it  spells  and 


Quite  other  than  at  first. 
Lady.  I  do  not  follow. 

Eliz.    How  many  names  in  the  long 
sweep  of  time  [but  hang- 

That  so  foreshortens  greatness,  may 
On  the  chance  mention  of  some  fool 

that  once 
Brake  bread  with  us,  perhaps;  and 
my  poor  chronicle  [field 
Is  but  of  glass.    Sir  Henry  Beding- 
May  split  it  for  a  spite. 

Lady.  God  grant  it  last. 

And  witness  to  your  Grace's  inno- 
cence, 
Till  doomsday  melt  it. 

Eliz.  Or  a  second  fire. 

Like  that  which  lately  crackled  un- 
derfoot [glass, 
And  in  this  very  chamber,  fuse  the 
And  char  us  back  again  into  the  dust 
We    spring  from.     Nevfer  peacock 

against  rain 
Scream'd  as  you  did  for  water. 
Lady.  And  I  got  it. 


I  woke  Sir  Her  ry — and  he's  true  to 
you— 

I  read  his  honest  horror  in  his  eyes. 
Eliz.    Or  true  to  you  ? 
Lady.  Sir  Henry  Bedin^eld ! 

I  will  have  no  man  true  to  me,  your 
Grace,  [the  clown! 

But  one  that  pares  his  nails;  to  me? 

For,  like  his  cloak,  his  manners  want 
the  nap  [says, 

And  gloss  of  court;  but  of  this  fire  he 

Nay  swears,  it  was  no  wicked  wilful- 
ness. 

Only  a  natural  chance. 

Eliz.  A  chance — perchance 

One  of  those  wicked  wilfuls  that  men 
make,  [know 
Nor  shame  to  call  it  nature.    Nay,  I 
They  hunt  my  blood.    Save  for  my 
daily  range  [Writ 
Among  the  pleasant  fields  of  Holy 
I  might  despair.   But  there  hath  some 
one  come;  [and  see. 

The  house  is  all  in  movement.  Hence,, 
[Exit  Lady. 
Milkmaid  {singing  without). 

Shame  upon  you,  Robin, 

Shame  upon  you  now  I 
Kiss  me  would  youf  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  f 

Daisies  grow  again. 

Kingcups  blow  again. 
And  you  came  and  kiss''d  me  milking 
the  cow. 

Robin  came  behind  me, 

Kiss'd  me  well  I  vow  ; 
Cuff  him  could  I  f  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  f 

Swallows  fly  again. 

Cuckoos  cry  again. 
And  you  came  and  kis8''d  me  milking 
the  cow. 

Come,  Robin,  Robin, 

Come  and  kiss  me  now ; 
Help  it  can  I  f  with  my  hands 

'Milking  the  cow  f 

Ringdoves  coo  again. 

All  things  woo  again. 
Come  behind  and  kiss  me  milking  the 
cow. 

Eliz.  Right  honest  and  red-cheek'd; 
Robin  was  vdolent, 


Scene  5 

And  she  was  crafty— a  sweet  violence, 
And  a  sweet  craft,    I  would  I  were  a 

milkmaid,  [bake,  and  die. 

To  sing,  love,  marry,  churn,  brew. 
Then  have  my  simple  headstone  by 

the  church,  [estly. 
And  all  things  lived  and  ended  hon- 
I  could  not  if  I  would.   I  am  Harry's 

daughter  :  [are  not  sweet, 

Gardiner  would  have  my  head.  They 
The  violence  and  the  craft  that  do 

divide  [must  lie  ; 

The  world  of  nature  ;  what  is  weak 
The  lion  needs  but  roar  to  guard  his 

young  ;  [they  are  there. 

The  lapwing  lies,  says  "here"  when 
Threaten  the  child;   "I'll  scourge 

you  if  you  did  it."  [soft  tongue, 
What  weapon  hath  the  child,  save  his 
To  say,  "I  did  not"?  and  my  rod's 

the  block. 
I  never  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow 
But  that  I  think,  "Wilt  thou  lie  there 

to-morrow  ?"  [fell, 
How  oft  the  falling  axe,  that  never 
Hath  shock'd  me  back  into  the  day- 
light truth  [black,  dead 
That  it  may  fall  to-day !  Those  damp. 
Nights  in  the  Towcr  ;  dead  -with  the 

fear  of  death —  [of  a  bell, 

Too  dead  ev'n  for  a  death-watch!  Toll 
Stroke  of  a  clock,  the  scurrying  of  a 

rat 

Affrighted  me,  and  then  delighted  me. 
For  there  was  life— And  there  was 

life  in  death—  [light, 
The  little  murder' d  princes,  in  a  pale 
Rose  hand  in  hand,  and  whisper'd, 

"  come  away. 
The  civil  wars  are  gone  forevermore: 
Thou  last  of   all  the  Tudors,  come 

away  [was  a  dream  ; 

With  us  is  peace  !  "  The  last  ?  It 
I  must   not   dream,  no.  wink,  but 

watch.  She  has  gone,  [by 
Maid  Marian  to  her  Robin — by  and 
Both  happy!  a  fox  may  filch  a  hen  by 

night,  [yard  ; 

And  make  a  morning  outcry  in  the 
But  there's  no  Renardhereto  "catch 

her  tripping."  [have  wish'd 

Catch  me  who  can  ;  yet,  som-etimes  I 
That  I  were  caught,  and  kill'd  away 

at  once  ^[G-ardiner, 
Out  of  the  flutter.    The  gray  rogue, 


491 

Went  on  his  knees,  and  pray'd  me  to 

confess  [self 
In  Wyatt's  business,  and  to  cast  my- 
Upon  the  good  Queen's  mercy  ;  ay. 

when,  my  Lord? 
God  save  the  Queen.    My  jailer — 

Enter  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield. 
Bed.  One,  whose  bolts. 

That  jail  you  from  free  life,  bar  you 

from  death.  [hereabout 
There  haunt  some  Papist  ruffians 
Would  murder  you. 

Eliz.  I  thank  you  heartily,  sir. 

But  I  am  royal,  tho'  your  prisoner. 
And  God  hath  blest  or  cursed  me 

with  a  nose — 
Your  boots  are  from  the  horses. 

Bed.  Ay,  my  Lady. 

When  next  there  comes  a  missive 

from  the  Queen  [hour 
It  shall  be  all  my   study   for  one 
To  rose  and  lavender  my  horsiness, 
Before  I  dare  to  glance  upon  your 

Grace.  [time  she  wrote, 

Eliz.  A  missive  from  the  Queen :  last 
I  had  like  to  have  lost   my  life:  it 

takes  my  breath  :  [boots, 
O  God,  sir,  do  you  look  upon  your 
Are  you  so  small  a  man  ?  Help  me  : 
Is  it  life  or  death  ?  [what  think  you. 
Bed.  I  thought  not  on  my  boots; 
The  devil  take  all  boots  were  ever 

made  [lay  it  here, 

Since  man  went  barefoot.  See,  I 
For  I  will  come  no  nearer  to  your 

Grace;  [Laying  down  the  letter): 
And  whether  it  bring  you  bitter  news 

or  sweet,  [or  not, 

And  God  hath  given  your  Grace  a  nose 
I'll  help  you,  if  I  may. 

Elis.  Your  pardon,  then  ; 

It  is  the  heat  and  narrowness  of  the 

cage  [free  wing 

That  makes  the  captive  testy  ;  with 
The  world  were  all  one  Araby.  Leave 

me  now, 

Will  you,  companion  to  myself,  sir  ? 

Bed.  Will  I  ? 

With  most  exceeding  willingness,  I 
will  ; 

You  know  I  never  come  until  I  be 
call'd.  [Exit. 
Eliz.   It  lies  there  folded  :  is  there 
venom  in  it  ?  [sting. 
A  snake — and  if  I  touch  it,  it  may 


QUEEN  MARY. 


492 


QUEER  MARY. 


Acts 


Come,  co.iie,  the  worst! 
Best  wisdom  is  to  know  the  worst  at 
once.  [Reads: 
It  is  the  King''s  wish  that  you  should 
wed  Prince  Philibert  of  Savoy.  You 
are  to  come  to  Court  on  the  in,\tant ; 
and  think  of  this  in  yoicr  coining. 

Mary  the  Queen. 
Think  !  I  have  many  thoughts  ; 
I  think  there  may  be  birdlime  here 
for  me  ;  [the  realm  ; 

I  think  they  fain  would  have  me  from 
I  think  the  Queen  may  never  bear  a 
child ;  [Queen, 
I  think  that  I  may  be  some  time  the 
Then,  Queen  indeed  :  no  foreign 
prince  or  pries  [the  steps. 

Should  fill  my  throne,  myself  upon 
I  think  I  will  not  marry  any  one, 
Specially  not  this  landless  Philibert 
Of  Savoy  ;  but,  if  Philip  menace  me, 
I  think  that  I  will  play  with  Phili- 
bert,— 

As  once  the  holy  father  did  with  mine. 
Before  my  father  married  my  good 

mother, — 
For  fear  of  Spain. 

Enter  Lady. 
Lojdy.  O  Lord  !  your  Grace, 

your  Grace,  [shall  fly 

I  feel  so  happy  :  it  seems  that  we 
These  bald,  blank  fields,  and  dance 

into  the  sun 
That  shines  on  princes. 

Eliz.  Yet,  a  moment  since, 

I  wish'd  myself  the  milkmaid  singing 

here,  [flowers — 

To  kiss  and  cuff  among  the  birds  and 
A  right  rough  life  and  healthful. 

Lady.  But  the  wench 

Hath  her  own  troubles  ;  she  is  weep- 
ing now  ;  [word. 
For  the  wrong  Robin  took  her  at  her 
Then  the  cow  kicked,  and  all  her  milk 

was  spilt. 
Your  Highness  such  a  milkmaid  ? 

Eliz.  I  had  kept 

My  Robins  and  my  cows  in  sweeter 

order 

Had  I  been  such.  [a  Robin  ? 

Laxiy  {slyly).     And  had  your  Grace 
Eliz.    Come,  come,  you   are  chill 
here  ;  you  want  the  sun 
That  shines  at  court;  make  ready  for 
the  journey. 


Pray  God,  we  'scape  the  sunstroke. 

Ready  at  once.  [Exeunt. 
Scene  VI. — London.   A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

Lord    Petre    and    Lord  William 
Howard. 

Petre.   You  cannot  see  the  Queen. 
Renard  denied  her, 
Ev'n  now  to  me. 

HoiJC.       Their  Flemish  go-between 
And  all-in-all.    I  came  to  thank  her 
Majesty  [the  Tower  ; 

For  freeing  my  friend  Bagenhall  from 
A  grace  to  me  !   Mercy,  that  herb-of- 
Flowers  now  but  seldom.  [grace, 
Petre.  Only  now  perhaps, 

Because  the  Queen  hath  been  three 
days  in  tears  [hedge-rose 
For    Philip's  going— like    the  wild 
Of  a  soft  winter,  possible,  not  prob- 
able. 

However,  you  have  prov'n  it. 
How.  I  must  see  her. 

Enter  Renard. 
Ren.    My  Lords,  you  cannot  see 

her  Majesty. 
Hoic.    Whv  then  the  King  !  for  I 
would  have  him  bring  it  [Queen, 
Home  to  the  leisure  wisdom  of  his 
Before  he  go,  that  since  these  stat- 
utes past,  [his  heat, 
Gardiner  out-Gardiners  Gard  ner  in 
Bonner  cannot  out-Bonner  his  own 
self —                      [children  do. 
Beast  !— but  they  play  with  fire  as 
And  burn  the  house.    I  know  that 
these  are  breeding  [in  men 
A  fierce  resolve  and  fixt  heart-hate 
Against   the  King,  the  Queen,  the 

Holy  Father, 
The  faith  itself.    Can  I  not  see  him  ? 

Ren.  Not  now. 

And  in  all  this,  my  Lord,  her  Majesty 
Is  flint  of  flint,  you  may  strike  fire 
from  her,  [your  message. 

Not  hope  to  melt  her.     I  will  give 
[Exeunt  Petre  and  Howard. 
Enter  Philip  {musing). 
Phi.  She  will  not  have  Prince  Phili- 
bert of  Savoy,  [she  will  live 
I    talk'd   with  her  in    vain— says 
And  die  true  maid — a  goodly  creature 
too              [she  must  have  him  ; 
Would  she  J^ad  been  the  QueenJ  yet 


Scene  6 

She  troubles    England  :    that  she 

breathes  in  England 
Is  life  and  lungs  to  every  rebel  birth 
That  passes  out  of  embryo. 

Simon  Renard  !— 
This  Howard,  whom  they  fear,  what 

was  he  saying  ?     [said,  my  liege, 
Ren.    What   your  imperial  father 
To  deal  with  heresy  gentlier.  Gar- 
diner burns,  [this  people 
And  Bonner  burns;  audit  would  seem 
Care  more  for  our  brief  life  in  their 

wet  land  [my  Lord 

Than  yours  in  happier  Spain.  I  told 
He  should  not  vex  her  Highness ;  she 

would  say  [that  His  church 

These  are  the  means  God  works  with. 
May  flourisa. 
Phi.  Ay,  sir,  but  in  stateman- 

ship  [blow. 
To  strike  too  soon  is  oft  to  miss  the 
Thou  knowesfc  I  bade  my  chaplain, 

Castro,  preach 
Against  these  burnings. 

Ren.  And  the  Emperor 

Approved   you,  and    when  last  he 

wrote,  declared         [were  bland 
His  comfort  in  your  Grace  that  you 
And  affable  to  men  of  all  estates. 
In  hope  to  charm  them  from  their 

hate  of  Spain.  [under  Spain. 

Phi.  In  hope  to  crush  all  heresy 
But,  Renard,  I  am  sicker  staying  here 
Than  any  sea  could  make  me  passing 

hence, 

Tho'  I  be  ever  deadly  sick  at  sea. 

So  sick  am  I  with  biding  for  this 

child.  [women 
Is  it  the  fashion  in  this  clime  for 
To  go  twelve  months  in  bearing  of  a 

child  ?  [they  led 

The  nurses  yawn'd,  the  cradle  gaped. 
Processions,  chanted  litanies,  clash'd 

their  bells,  [priests 
Shot  off  their  lying  cannon,  and  her 
Have  preach'd.  the  fools,  of  this  fair 

prince  to  come,  [fool. 
Till,  by  St.  James,  I  find  myself  the 
Why  do  you  lift  your  eyebrow  at  me 

thus  ?  [moved  till  now. 

Ren.  I  never  saw  your  Highness 
Phi.    So,  weary  am  I  of  this  wet 

land  of  theirs, 
4.nd  every  soul  of  man  that  breathes 

therein. 


40.3 

Ren.    My  liege,  we  must  not  drop 
the  mask  before 
The  masquerade  is  over — 

Phi.  —Have  I  dropt  it  ? 

I  have  but  shown  a  loathing  face  to 
you, 

Who  knew  it  from  the  first. 

Enter  Mary. 
Mary  {aside).    With  Renard.  Still 
Parleying  with  Renard,  all  the  day 
with  Renard,  me — 

And  scarce  a  greeting  all  the  day  for 
And  goes  to-morrow.        [Exit  Mary. 
Phi.    {to  Renard  who  advances  to 
him).       Well,  sir,  is  there  more? 
Ren.  {who  has  perceived  the  Queen), 
May  Simon  Renard  speak  a  single 
word? 

Phi.  Ay. 
Ren.   And  be  forgiven  fot  it? 
Phi.  Simon  Renard 

Knows  me  too  well  to  speak  a  single 
That  could  not  be  forgiven.  [word 
Ren.  Well,  my  liege, 

Your  Grace  hath  a  most  chaste  and 
loving  wife. 
Phi.     Why  not?     The  Queen  of 

Philip  should  be  chaste. 
Ren.    Ay,  but,  my  Lord,  you  know 
what  Virgil  sings. 
Woman  is  various  and  most  mutable. 
Phi.    She  play  the  harlot  !  never. 
Ren.  No,  sire,  no, 

Not  dream'd  of  by  the  rabidest  gos- 
peller, [palace, 
There  was  a  paper  thrown  into  the 
"The  King  hath  wearied  of  his  bar- 
ren bride."  [rent  it, 
She  came  upon  it,  read  it,  and  then 
With  all  the  rage  of  one  who  hates  a 
truth                         [have  you — 
He  cannot  but  allow.     Sire,  I  would 
What  should  I  say,  I  cannot  pick  my 
words —  [Queen. 
Be  somewhat  less — majestic  to  your 
Phi.    Am  I  to  change  my  manners, 
Simon  Renard,                [beasts  ? 
Because  these  islanders  are  brutal 
Or  would  you  have  me  turn  a  sonnet- 
teer,                             [of  hers  ? 
And  warble  those  brief-sighted  eyes 
Ren.    Brief -sighted  tho'  they  be.  £ 
have  seen  them,  sire,  [royally 
When  you  perchance  were  trifling 


QUEEK  MARY. 


4i)4    .  Q  UEEN  MA  R  Y. 

With  some  fair  dame  of  court,  sud- 
denly fill  [indeed 
With  such  fierce  fire — had  it  been  fire 
It  would  have  burnt  both  speakers. 
Phi.  Ay,  and  then  ? 

Ben.  Sire,  might  it  not  be  policy  in 
*      some  matter  [to  cede 

Of  small  importance  now  and  then 
A  point  to  her  demand? 
Phi.  Well,  I  am  going. 

Reyi.    For  should  her  love  when  you 
are  gone,  my  liege,     [be  wanting 
Witness  these  papers,  there  will  not 
Those  that   will  urge  her  injury — 
should  her  love —        [than  one — 
And  I  have  known  such  women  more 
Veer     to    the    counterpoint,  and 
jealousy 

Hath  in  it  an  alchemic  force  to  fuse 
Almost    into  one   metal   love  and 
hate, —  [Council, 
And  she  impress  her  wrongs  upon  her 
And  these  again    upon  her  Parlia- 
ment—  [then#perhaps 
We  are  not  loved  here,  and  would  be 
Not  so  well  holpen  in  our  wars  with 
France, 

As  else  we  might  be — here  she  comes. 
Enter  Mary. 
Mary.  O  Philip  ! 

Nay,  must  you  go  indeed  ? 
Phi.  Madam,  I  must. 

Mary.    The  parting  of  a  husband 
and  a  wife  [half 
Is  like  the  cleaving  of  a  heart  ;  one 
Will  flutter  here,  one  there. 
Phi.  You  say  true,  Madam. 

Mary.    The  Holy  Virgin  will  not 
have  me  yet  [a  prince. 

Lose  th<  sweet  hope  that  1  may  bear 
If  such  a  prince  were  born  and  you 
not  here  !  [were  born. 

Phi.  I  should  be  here  if  such  a  prince 
Mary.    But  must  you  go  r 
Phi.     Madam,  you  know  my  father, 
Retiring  into  cloistral  solitude 
To  yield  the  remnant  of  his  years  to 
heaven,  [the  world 

Will  shift  the  yoke  and  weight  of  all 
From  off  his  neck  to  mine.  We  meet 
at  Brussels.  [long. 
But  since  mine  absence  will  not  be  for 
Your  Majesty  shall  go  to  Dover  with 
And  wait  my  coming  back.  [me. 


Act\ 

Mary.  To  Dover  ?  no, 

I  am  too  feeble.    I  will  go  to  Green- 
wich, tthere  watch 
So  you  will  have  me  with  you  ;  and 
All  that  is  gracious  in  the  breath  of 
heaven                 [land,  and  pass 
Draw  with  your  sails  from  our  poor 
And  leave  me,  Philip,  with  my  prayers 
for  you.                 [your  prayers. 
Phi.  And  doubtless  I  shall  profit  by 
Mary.    Methinks  that  would  you 
tarry  one  day  more  [myself 
(The  news  was  sudden)!  could  mould 
To  bear  your  going  better  ;   will  you 
do  V  ?                    [save  a  realm. 
Phi.    Madam,  a  day  may  sink  or 
Mary.     A  day  may  save  a  heart 
from  breaking  too.     [stop  a  day? 
Phi.    Well,  Simon  Renard,  shall  we 
Ren.    Your  Grace's  business  will 
not  suffer,  sire,  [tell. 
For  one  day  more,  so  far  as  I  can 
Phi.    Then  one  day  more  to  please 
her  Majesty.          [my  life  again. 
Mary.   The  sunshine  sweeps  across 

0  if  I  knew  you  felt  this  parting. 
As  I  do!  [Philip, 

Phi.        By  St.  James  I  do  protest. 
Upon  the  faith  and  honor  of  a  Span- 
iard, [Majesty. 

1  am  vastly  grieved  to  leave  your 
Simon,  is  supper  ready? 

Ren.  Ay,  my  liege, 

I  saw  the  covers  laying. 
Phi.  Let  us  have  it. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV. 
Scene  l.—A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Mary,  Cardinal  Pole. 
Mary.    What  have  you  there? 
Pole.  So  please  your  Majesty, 

A  long  petition  from  the  foreign  exiles 
To  spare  the  life  of  Cranmer.  Bish- 
op Thirlby.  [Howard, 
And  my  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 
Crave,  in  the  same  cause,  hearing  of 
yourGr^ce.  [ated — 

Hath  he  not  written  himself— infatu- 
To  sue  you  for  his  life? 

Mary.  His  life?  Oh,  no; 

Not  siied  for  that— he  knows  it  were 
in  vain. 

But  so  much  of  the  anti-papal  leaven 


Scene  1 

Works  in  him  yet,  he  hath  prayM  me 
not  to  sully  [the  t-ealm 

Mine  own  prerogative,  and  degrade 
By  seeking  justice  at  a  stranger's 
hand  [and  Queen, 

.  Against  my  natural  subject.  King 
To  whom  he  owes  his  loyalty  after 
God,  [prince  ? 

Shall  these  accuse  him  to  a  foreign 
Death  would  not  grieve  him  more.  I 
cannot  be  [Pope 
True  to  this  realm  of  England  and  the 
Together,  says  the  heretic. 

Pole.  And  there  errs; 

As  he  hath  ever  err'd  thro'  vanity, 
A  se  jular  kingdom  is  but  as  the  body 
Lacking  a  soul;  and  in  itself  a  beast. 
The  Holy  Father  in  a  secular  king- 
dom [heaven 
Is  as  the  soul  descending  out  of 
Into  a  body  generate. 
Mary.  Write  to  him,  then. 

Pole.   I  will. 

Mary.         And  sharply,  Pole. 
Pole.    Here  come  the  Cranmerites! 
Enter  Thirlby,  Lord  Paget,  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard. 
ITow.    Health  to  your  Grace.  Good- 
morrow,  my  Lord  Cardinal; 
We  make  our  humble  prayer  unto 
your  Grace  [eign  parts, 

That  Cranmer  may  withdraw  to  for- 
Or  into  private  life  within  the  realm. 
In  several   bills   and  declarations. 
Madam, 

He  hath  recanted  all  his  heresies. 
Paget.    Ay.  ay ;  if  Bonner  have  not 
forged  the  bills.  [Aside 
Mary.  Did  not  More  die,  and  Fisher? 

he  must  burn. 
How.    He  hath  recanted,  Madam. 
Mary.  The  better  for  him. 

He  burns  in  Purgatory,  not  in  Hell. 
ffow.    Ay,  ay,  your  Grace;  but  it 
was  never  seen 
That  any  one  recanting  thus  at  full. 
As  Cranmer  hath,  came  to  the  fire  on 
earth. 

3fary.   It  will  be  seen  now,  then. 
Thi.  O  Madam,  Madam! 

C  thus  implore  you,  low  upon  my 
knees,  [friend. 
'Po  reach  the  hand  of  mercy  to  my 
1  have  err'd  with  him;  with  him  I 
have  recanted. 


493 

What  human  reason  is  there  why  my 
friend 

Should  meet  with  lesser  mercy  t  an 
myself  ?  [a  not 

Mary.    My  Lord  of  Ely,  this.  Alter 

We  hang  the  leaders,  let  their  follow- 
ing go. 

Cranmer    is   head    and  father  of 

these  heresies,  [may  God 

New  learning  as  they  call  it  ;  yea. 
Forget  me  at  most  need  when  I  forget 
Her     foul      divorce — my  sainted 

mother — No  ! —   [doubted  there. 
Hoiv.    Ay,  ay,  but  mighty  doctors 
The  Pope  himself  waver'd  ;  and  more 

tihan  one  [wit, 
Row'd  in  that  galley — Gardiner  to 
Whom  truly  I  deny  not  to  have  been 
Your  faithful  friend  and  trusty  coun- 
cillor, [book, 
Hath  not  your  Highness  ever  read  his 
His  tractate  upon  True  Obedience, 
Writ  by  himself  and  Bonner  ? 

Mary.  I  will'  take 

Such  order  with  all  bad  heretical 

books  [house  and  live. 

That  none  shall  hold  them  in  his 
Henceforward.    No,  my  Lord. 

How.  Then  never  read  it. 

The  truth  is  here.    Your  father  was 

a  man  [courteous. 
Of  such  colossal  kinghood,  yet  so 
Except  when    wroth,    you  scarce 

could  meet  his  eye 
And  hold   your  own  ;  and  were  he 

wroth  indeed. 
You  held  it  less,  or  not  at  all.    I  say, 
Your  iather  had  a  will  that  beat  men 

down  ;  [men  down — 

Your  father  had  a  brain  that  beat 
Pole.    Not  me,  my  Lord. 
How.      No,  for  you  were  not  here; 
You  sit  upon  this  fallen  Cranmer's 

throne  ;  [Lord  Legate, 

And  it  would  more  become  you,  my 
To  join  a  voice,  so  potent  with  her 

Highness,  [stand 
To  ours  in  plea  for  Cranmer  than  to 
On  naked  self-assertion. 

Mary.  All  your  voices 

Are  waves   on  flint.     The  heretic 

must  burn.  [esty's  own  life; 

How.  Yet  once  he  saved  your  Maj- 
Stood  out  against  the  King  in  your 
At  his  own  peril.  [behalf, 


QUEEN^  MARY. 


496  QUEEN  MARY. 


Mary.  I  know  not  if  he  did  ; 

And  if  he  did  I  care  not,  my  Lord 
Howard. 

My  life  is  not  so  happy,  no  such  boon. 
That  I  should  spare  to  take  a  heretic 

priest's,  [you  vex  me  ? 

Who  saved  it  or  not  saved.    Why  do 
Paget.    Yet  to  save  Cranmer  were 

to  Save  the  Church,  [effaced, 
Your  Majesty's  I  mean  ;  he  is 
Self-blotted  out  ;    so   wounded  his 

honor,  [hole 
He  can  but  creep  down  into  some  dark 
Like  a  hurt  beast,  and  hide  himself 

and  die  ;  [Highness  knows 

But  if  you  burn  him,— well,  your 
The  saying,   "Martyr's  blood— seed 

of  the  Church." 
Mary.    Of  the  true  Church  ;  but 

his  is  none,  nor  will  be. 
You  are  too  politic  for  me,  my  Lord 

Paget,  [life. 
And  if  he  have  to  live  so  loath'd  a 
It  were  more  merciful  to  burn  him 

now.  [knew  him 

Thi.  O  yet  relent.  O,  Madam,  if  you 
As  I  do,  ever  gentle,  and  so  gracious, 
With  all  his  learning — 

Mary.  Yet  a  heretic  still. 

His  learning  makes  his  burning  the 

more  just.        [came  across  him  ; 
Thi.    So  worshipt  of  all  those  that 
The  stranger  at  his  hearth,  and  all 

his  house —  [bine,  belike. 

Mary.  His  children  and  his  concu- 
Thi.    To  do  him  any  wrong  was  to 

beget  [was  rich, 

A  kindness  from  him,  for  his  heart 
Of  such  fine  mould,  that  if  you  sow  d 

therein  [ity. 
The  seed  of  Hate,  it  blossom'd  Char- 
Pole.    "After  his  kind  it  costs  him 

nothing."  there  s  [point. 
An  old  world  English  adage  to  the 
These  are  but  natural   graces,  my 

good  Bishop,  [flowers. 
Which  in  the  Catholic  garden  are  as 
But  on  the  heretic  dunghill  only 

weeds.  [gracious. 
How.  Such  weeds  make  dunghills 
Mary.  Enough,  my  Lords. 

It  is  God's  will,  the  Holy  Father's 

will,  [should  burn. 

And  Philip's  will,  and  mine,  that  he 
He  is  pronounced  anathema.  I 


Act^ 

How.  Farewell,  Madam, 

God  grant  you  ampler  mercy  at  your 
call 

Than  you  have  shown  to  Cranmer. 

[Exeunt  Lords. 
Pole.  After  this, 

Your  Grace  will  hardly  care  to  over- 
look [exiles, 
This  same  petition  of  the  foreign 
For  Cranmer's  life. 

Mary.    Make  out  the  writ  to-night. 
Scene  II. — Oxford.  Cranmer  in  prison. 
Cran.    Last  night  I  dream 'd  the 
fagots  were  alight,  [stake, 
And  that  myself  was  fasten'd  to  the 
And  found  it  all  a  visi  jnary  flame. 
Cool  as  the  light  in  old  decaying 
wood  ;  [a  cloud, 

And  then  King  Harry  look'd  from  out 
And  bade  me  have  good  courage  ; 

and  I  heard  [heaven," — 

An  angel  cry,  '"there  is  more  joy  in 
And  after  that,  the  trumpet  of  the 
dead.  [Trumpets  without. 

Why,  t-here  are  trumpets  blowing 
now  ;  what  is  it  ? 

Enter  Father  Cole. 
Cole.    Cranmer,  I  come  to  question 
you  again  ;  [olic  Faith 

Have  you  remain'd  in  the  true  Cath- 
I  left  you  in  ? 

Cra7i.       In  the  true  Catholic  faith. 
By  Heaven's  gra.  e,  I  am  more  and 
more  confirm'd.  [ther  Cole? 

Why  are  the  trumpets  blowing.  Fa- 
Cole.    Cranmer,  it   is  decided  by 
the  Council  [cantation. 
That  you  to-day  should  read  your  re- 
Before    the  people  in  St.  Mary's 
Church. 

And  there  be  many  heretics  in  the 
town. 

Who  loathe  you  for  your  late  return 
to  Rome,  [the  street, 

And  might  assail  you  passing  through 
And  tear  you  piecemeal:  so  you  have 
a  guard.         [  thank  the  Council. 
Cran.    Or  seek  to  rescue  me.  I 
Cole.    Do  you  lack  any  money  ? 
Cran.  Nay,  why  should  I  ? 

The  prison  fare  is  good  enough  for 
me. 

Cole.   Ay,  but  to  give  the  poor. 
Cran.  Hand  it  me,  then  1 


Scene  2 

I  thank  you. 

Cole.  For  a  little  space,  farewell ; 
Until  !  see  you  in  St  Mary's  Church. 

[Exit  Cole. 

Cran.    It  is  against  all  precedent 
to  burn  [don  me. 

One  who  recants  ;  they  mean  to  par- 
To  give  the  poor— they  give  the  poor 
who  die.  [fixt  ; 

Well,  burn  me  or  not  burn  me  I  am  j 
It  is  but  a  communion,  not  a  mass  ; 
A  holy  supper,  not  a  sacrifice  ; 
No  man  can  make  his  Maker — Villa 
Garcia. 

Enter  Villa  Garcia. 

V.  G.    Pray   you  write  out  this 

paper  for  me,  Cranmer. 
Cran.    Have  I  not  writ  enough  to 

satisfy  you? 
F.  G.    It  is  the  last. 
Cran.    Give  it  me,  then.  {He  writes. 
V.  G.  Now  sign. 

Cran.    I  kave  sign'd  enough,  and  I 

will  sign  no  more. 
V.  G.    It  is  no  more  than  what  you 
have  sign'd  already. 
The  public  form  thereof. 

Cran.  It  may  be  so  ; 

I  sign  it  with  it  my  presence,  if  I  read 
it.  [sir,  well, 

V.  G.  But  this  is  idle  of  you.  Well, 
You  are  to  beg  the  people  to  pray  for 
you  ;  [life  ; 

Exhort  them  to  a  pure  and  virtuous 
Declare  the  Queen's  right  to  the 
throne  ;  confess  [and  retract 
Your  faith  before  all  your  hearers  ;  . 
That  Eucharistic  doctrine  in  your 
Will  you  not  sign  it  now?  [book. 

Cran  No,  Villa  Garcia, 

I  sign  no  more.    Will  they  have  mer- 
cy on  me  ?       [cy.    So,  farewell. 
F.  G.  Have  you  good  hopes  of  mer- 
[Exit 

Cran.    Good   hopes,    not  theirs, 
have  I  that  I  am  fixt, 
Fixt  beyond  fall;  however,  in  strange 
hours,  [quies. 
After    the  long  brain-dazing  coUo- 
And  thousand-times  recurring  argu- 
ment 

Of  those  two  friars  ever  in  my  prison, 
When  left  alone  in  my  despondency. 


497 

Without  a  friend,  a  book,  my  faith 
would  seem  [heavily 
Dead  or  half-drown'd,  or  else  swam 
Against  the  huge  corruptions  of  the 
Church, 

Monsters  of  mistradition,  old  enough 
To  scare  me  into  dreaming,  "  what  am 

I,  [it  so, 

Cranmer,  against  whole  ages?"  was 
Or  am  I  slandering  my  most  inward 

friend,  foe — 

To  veil  the  fault  of  my  most  outward 
The  soft  and  tremulous  coward  in 

the  flesh  ? 

0  higher, holier,  earlier, purer  church, 

1  have  found  thee  and  not  leave  thee 

any  more. 
It  is  but  a  communion,  not  a  mass — 
No  sacrifice,  but  a  life-giving  feast  ! 
( Writes. )   So,  so ;  this  will  I  say — thus 

will  I  pray.      [Puts  up  the  paper. 

Enter  Bonner. 
Bon.    Good-day,  old  friend;  what, 

you  look  somewhat  worn  : 
And  yet  it  is  a  day  to  test  your  health 
Ev'n  at  the  best :  I  scarce  have  spoken 

with  you  [your  trial 

Since  when:' — your  degradation.  At 
Never  stood  up  a  bolder  man  than 

you;  [commissioner — 
You  would  not  cap  the  Pope's 
Your  learning,  and  your  stoutness, 

and  your  heresy, 
Dumfounded  half  of  us.  So,  after  that, 
We  had  to  dis-archbishop  and  un- 

lord,  [again. 
And  make  you  simple  Cranmer  once 
The  common  barber  dipt  your  hair, 

and  I  [holy  oil; 

Scraped  from  your  finger-points  the 
And  worse  than  all,  you  had  to  kneel 

to  me  :  [Master  Cranmer. 

Which  was  not  pleasant  for  you, 
Now  you,  that  would  not  recognize 

the  Pope,  [Presence, 
And  you,  that  would  not  own  the  Real 
Have  found  a  real  presence  in  the, 

stake,  [ancient  faith; 

Which  frights  you  back  into  the 
And  so   you  have  recanted  to  the 

Pope.  [Cranmer! 
How  are  the  mighty  fallen.  Master 
Cran.    You  have  been  more  fierce 

against  the  Pope  than  I; 


QUEEN  MARY. 


*98  QUEEN 
But  why  fling  back   the  stone  he 
strikes  me  with  ?  [Aside. 

0  Bonner,  if  lever  did  you  kindness — 
Power  hath  been  given  you  to  try 

faith  by  fire- 
Pray  you,  remembering  how  yourself 

have  changed,  [gone. 
Be  somewhat  pitiful,  after  I  have 
To  the  poor  flock — to  women  and  to 

children —  [me. 
That  when  I  was  archbishop  held  with 
Bon.    Ay — gentle  as  they  call  you — 

live  or  die! 
Pitiful  to  this  pitiful  heresy? 

1  must  obey  the  Queen  and  Council, 

man.  [yourself, 
Win  thro'  this  day  with  honor  to 
And  I'll  say  something  for  you— so — 
good-by.  [Exit. 
Cran.    This  hard  coarse  man  of  old 
hath  crouch' d  to  me  [him. 
Till  I  myself  was  half  ashamed  for 

Enter  Thirlby. 
Weep  not,  good  Thirlby. 

Tht.  Oh,  my  Lord,  my  Lord ! 

My  heart  is  no  such  block  as  Bonner's 
Who  would  not  weep?  [is  : 

Cran.      Why  do  you  so  my  lord  me. 
Who  am  disgraced?  [ven 
Thi.    On  earth  ;  but  saved  in  hea- 
By  your  recanting. 
Cran.    Will  they  burn  me,  Thirlby? 
Thi.    Alas,  they  will  ;  these  burn- 
ings will  not  help 
The  purpose  of  the  faith  ;  but  my 

poor  voice 
Against  them  is  a  whisper  to  the  roar 
Of  a  spring  tide.  [me? 
Crari.    And  they  will  surely  burn 
Thi.   Ay  ;  and  besides,  will  have 
you  in  the  church 
Repeat  your  recantation  in  the  ears 
Of  all  men,  to  the  saving  of  their 
souls,  [help  you 

Before  your  execution.  May  God 
Thro'  that  hard  hour.  [Thirlby. 

Cran.     And  may  God  bless  you. 
Well,  they  shall  hear  my  recantation 
there.  [Exit  Thirlby. 

Disgraced,  dishonor'd!— not  by  them, 
indeed, 

By  mine  own  self— by  mine  own  hand ! 
O  thin-skinn'd  hand  and  jutting  veins, 
'twas  you  [of  Kent  ; 

That  sign'd  the  burn'  ig  of  poor  Joan 


MARY.  Act  4 

But  then  she  was  a  witch.   You  have 

written  much,  [for  Faith, 

But  you  were  never  raised  to  plead. 
Whose  dogmas  I  have  reach'd  :  he 

was  deliver" d  [was  Lambert ; 
To  the  secular  arm  to  burn;  and  there 
Who  can  forsee  himself  ?  truly  these 

burnings,  [burners. 
As  Thirlby  says,  are  profitless  to  the 
And  help  the  other  side.   You  shall 

burn  too, 
Burn  first  when  I  am  burnt. 
Fire — inch  by  inch  to  die  in  agony  ! 

Latimer  [burn'd 
Had  a  brief  end — not  Ridley.  Hooper 
Three-quarters  of  an  hour.    Will  my 

fagots  [raan. 
Be  wet  as  his  were  ?  It  is  a  day  of 
I  will  not  muse  upon  it.  [makes 
My  fancy  takes  the  burner's  part,  and 
The  fire  seem  even  crueller  than  it  is. 
No,  I  not  doubt  that  God  will  give  me 
Albeit  I  have  denied  him.  [strength. 

Enter  Soto  and  Villa  Garcia. 
V.  G.  We  are  ready 

To  take  you  to  St.  Mary's,  Master 

Cranmer. 
Cran.    And  I:  lead  on;  ye  loose  me 

from  my  bonds.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  III.— 5'^.  Mary's  Church. 

Cole  in  the  Pulpit,  Lord  Williams  of 
Thame  presiding.  Lord  William 
Howard,  Lord  Paget,  and  others. 
Cranmer  enters  between  Soto  and 
Villa  Garcia,  and  the  whole  Choir 
strike  up  "  Nunc  Dimittis."  Cran- 
mer is  set  upon  a  Scaffold  before  the 
people. 

Cole.    Behold  him — 
[A  pause  ;  people  in  the  foreground. 

People.    Oh,  unhappy  sight ! 

1  Prot.  See  how  the  tears  run  down 
his  fatherly  face. 

2  Prot.  James,  didst  thou  ever  see 
a  carrion  crow  [he  dies? 

Stand  watching  a  sick  beast  before 
1  Prot.    Him  perch'd  up  there  ?  I 
wish  some  thunderbolt 
Would  make  this  Cole  a  cinder,  pulpit 
and  all. 

Cole.     Behold  him,  brethren:  he 
hath  cause  to  weep!—  [will. 
So  have  we  all:  weep  with  him  if 


Scene  3 
Yet— 

It  is  expedient  for  one  man  to  die, 
Yea,  for  the  people,  lest  the  people 

die.  [returned 
Yet  wherefore  should  he  die  that  hath 
To  the  one  Catholic  Universal  Church, 
Eepentant  of  his  errors 
Prot.  murmurs.       Ay,  tell  us  that. 
Cole.    Those  of  the  wrong  side  will 

despise  the  man,  [of  death 

Deeming  him  one  that  thro'  the  fear 
Gave  up  his  cause,  except  he  seal  his 

faith  [dom. 
In  sight  of  all  with  flaming  martyr- 
Ciarv.    Ay.  [may  seem 

Cole.  Ye  hear  him,  and  albeit  there 
According  to  the  canons  pardon  due 
To  him  that  so  repents,  yet  are  there 

causes  [this  time 

Wherefore  our  Queen  and  Council  at 
Adjudge  him  to  the  death.    He  hath 

been  a  traitor,  [realm; 
A  shaker  and  confounder  of  the 
And  when  the  King's  divorce  was 

sued  at  Rome 
He  here,  this  heretic  metropolitan, 
As  if  he  had  been  the  Holy  Father, 

sat  [tic? 
And  judged  it.  Did  I  call  him  here- 
A  huge  heresiarch!  never  was  it 

known  [so. 
That  any  man  so  writing,  preaching 
Bo  poisoning  the  Church,  so  long  con- 
tinuing, [must  die, 
Hath  found  his  pardon;  therefore  he 
For  warning  and  example. 

Other  reasons 
There  be  for  this  man's  ending,  which 

our  Queen  [not 
And  Council  at  this  present  deem  it 
Expedient  to  be  known. 
Prot.  murmurs.         I  warrant  you. 
Cole.    Take  therefore,  all,  example 

by  this  man, 
For  if  our  Holy  Queen  not  pardon  him, 
Much  less  shall  others  in  like  cause 

escape,  [lowest. 
That  all  of  you,  the  highest  as  the 
May  learn  there  is  no  power  against 

the  Lord.  [degree. 
There  stands  a  man,  once  of  so  high 
Chief  prelate  of  our  Church,  arch- 
bishop, first 
In  Council,  second  person  in  the 

realm, 


499 

Friend  tor  so  long  time  of  a  mighty 
King;  [based 
And  now  ye  see  downfallen  and  de- 
From  councillor  to  caitiff — fallen  so 
low,  [scum 
The  leprous  flutterings  of  the  byway. 
And  offal  of  the  city  would  not  cnange 
Estates  with  him;  in  brief,  so  miser- 
ble,  [him. 
There  is  no  hope  of  better  left  for 
No  place  for  worse. 

Yet,  Cranmer  be  thou  glad. 
This  is  the  work  of  God.   He  is  glori- 
fied [claim'd; 
In  thy  conversion  :  lo!  thou  art  re- 
He  brings  thee  home  ;  nor  fear  but 
that  to-day  [thief's  award. 

Thou    Shalt   receive   the  penitent 
And  be  with  Christ  the  Lord  in  Para- 
dise, [fire  seem 
Remember  how  God  made  the  fierce 
To  those  three  children  like  a  pleas- 
Remember,  too,  [ant  dew. 
The  triumph  of  St.  Andrew  on  his 
cross,  [fire. 
The  patience  of  St.  Lawrence  in  the 
Thus,  if  thou  call  on  God  and  all  the 
saints,  [flame, 
God  will  beat  down  the  fury  of  the 
Or  give  thee  saintly  strength  to  un- 
dergo, [sung 
And  for  thy  soul  shall  masses  here  be 
By  every  priest  in  Oxford.    Pray  for 
him.                       [pray  for  me  ; 
Cran.  Ay,  one  and  all,  dear  brothers. 
Pray  with    one  breath,  one  heart, 
one  soul,  for  me.         [you  doubt 
Cole.    And  now,  lest  any  one  among 
The  man's  conversion  and  remorse 
of  heart,  [Speak,  Master  Cranmer, 
Yourselves   shall  hear  him  speak. 
Fulfil  your  promise  made  me,  and 
proclaim                    [may  hear. 
Your  true  undoubted  faith,  that  all 
Cran.    And  that  I  will.     O  God, 
Father  of  Heaven  1  [world! 
O  Son  of   God,  Redeemer  of  the 

0  Holy  Ghost!  proceedingfrom  them 

both,  [mercy  on  me. 

Three  persons  and  one  God,  have 
'Most   miserable    sinner,  wretched 

man.  [and  earth 

1  have  offended  against  heaven 
More  grievously  than  any  tongue  can 

tell. 


QUEEK  MARY. 


500 


QUEEN-  MARY. 


Act  4, 


Then  whither  should  I  flee  for  any 
help?  [heaven, 

I  am  ashamed,    to  lift  my  eyes  to 

And  I  can  find  no  refuge  upon  earth. 

Shall  I  despair  then  ?  — God  forbid  ! 
O  God, 

For  thou  art  merciful,  refusing  none 
That  come  to  Thee  for  succor,  unto 
Thee,  [to  Thee  ; 

Therefore,  I  come  ;  humble  myself 
Saying,  O  Lord  God,  although  my  sins 
be  great,  [God  tne  Son, 

For  thy  great  mercy  have  mercy  !  O 
Not  for  slight  faults  alone,  when  thou 

becamest 
Man  in  the  Flesh,  was  the  great  mys- 
tery wrought ; 
O  God  the  Father,  not  for  little  sins 
Didst  thou  yield  up  thy  Son  to  human 
death  ;  [sinn'd. 
But  for  the  greatest  sin  that  can  be 
Yea,  even  such  as  mine,  incalculable. 
Unpardonable, — sin  against  the  light. 
The  truth  of  God,  which  I  had  proven 
and  known.  [sin. 
Thy  mercy  must  be  greater  than  all 
Forgive  me,  Father,  for  no  merit  of 
mine,  [rifled, 
But  that  Thy  name  by  man  be  glo- 
And  thy  most  blessed  Son's,  who  died 
for  man.  [death 
Good  people,  every  man  at  time  of 
Would  fain  set   forth  some  saying 

that  may  live 
A.fter  his  death  and  better  human- 
kind ;  [power  to  live, 
for  death  gives  life's  last  word  a 
>nd,  like  the  stone-cut  epitaph,  re- 
main [to  men. 
A-f  ter  the  vanished  voice,  and  speak 
God  grant  me  grace  to  glorify  my 
God  1 

A.nd  first  I  say  it  is  a  grevious  case, 
Many  so  dote  upon    this  bubble 

world,  [fly. 
Whose  colors  in  a  moment  break  and 
They  care  for  nothing  else.  What 

saith  St.  John  :  [God." 
"  Love  of  this  world  is  hfitred  against 
Again,  I  pray  you  all  that,  next  to 

God, 

You  do  unmurmuringly  and  willingly 
Obey  your  King  and  Queen,  and  not 
for  dread  [Him 
Of  these  alone,  but  from  the  fear  of 


Whose  ministers  they  be  to  govern 

you.  [gether 
Thirdly,  I  pray  you  all  to  love  to- 
Like    brethren  ;    yet   what  hatred 

Christian  men  [brethren. 
Bear  to  each  other,  seeming  not  as 
But  mortal  foes !    But  do  you  good  to 

all  [man  more 

As  much  as  in  you  lieth.  Hurt  no 
Than  you  would  harm  your  loving 

natural  brother  [any  do. 

Of  the  same  roof,  same  breast.  If 
Albeit  he  think  himself  at  home  with 

God,  [away. 
Of  this  be  sure,  he  is  whole  worlds 
Protestant  murmurs.    What  sort  of 

brothers  then  be  those  that  lust 
To  burn  each  other? 

Will.  Peace  among  you,  there. 
Cran.    Fourthly,  to  those  that  own 

exceeding  wealth,  [once 
Remember  that  sore  saying  spoken 
By  Him  that  was  the  truth,  '  how 

hard  it  is  [Heaven"; 
For  the  rich  man  to  enter  into 
Let  all  rich  men  remember  that  hard 

word.  [now 
I  have  not  time  for  more  :  if  ever, 
Let  them  flow  forth  in  charity,  seeing 

now  ,  [dear. 
The  poor  so  many,  and  all  food  so 
Long  have  I  lain  in  prison,  yet  have 

heard  [the  poor 

Of  all  their  wretchedness.  Give  to 
Yet  give  to  God.    He  is  with  us  in 

the  poor.  [come 
And  now,  and  forasmuch  as  I  have 
To  the  last  end  of  life,  and  thereupon 
Hangs  all  my  past,  and  ail  my  liie  to 

be,  [with  joy. 

Either  to  live  with  Christ  in  Heaven 
Or  to  be  still  in  pain  with  devils  in 

heU; 

And,  seeing  in  a  moment,  I  shall  find 
[^Pointing  upivards 
Heaven  or  else  hell  ready  to  swallow 
me,  [Pointing  downwards. 

I  shall  declare  to  you  my  very  faith 
Without  all  color. 

Cole.    Hear  him  my  good  brethren. 
Cran.   I  do  believe  in  God,  Father 
of  all; 

In  every  article  of  the  Catholic  faith, 
And  every  syllable  taught  us  by  our 
Lord, 


Scene  3 

His   prophets  and  apostles,  in  the 
Both  Old  and  New.  [Testaments. 
Cole.    Be  plainer,  Master  Cranmer. 
Cran.    And  now  I  come  to  the  great 

cause  that  weighs  [thing 
Upon  my  conscience  more  than  any 
Or  said  or  done  in  all  my  life  by  me  ; 
For  there  be   writings  I  have  set 

abroad  [heart, 
Against  the  truth  I  knew  within  my 
Written  for  fear  of  death,  to  save  my 

life,  [hand 
If  that  might  be  ;  the  papers  by  my 
Sign'd  since  my  degradation— by  this 

hand  [Holding  out  his  right  hand 
Written  and  sign'd — I  here  renounce 

them  all  ;  [written 
And,  since  my  hand  offended,  having 
Against  my  heart,  my  hand  shall  first 

be  burnt, 
Sol  may  come  to  the  fire. 

[Dead  silence. 

Protestant  murmurs. 

1  Prot.    I  knew  it  would  be  so. 

2  Prot.      Our  prayers  are  heard ! 

3  Prot.    God  bless  him  ! 

Catholic  murmurs.    Out  upon  him! 
out  upon  him !  [fire  ! 

Liar  !   dissembler  !  traitor  !  to  the 
Will,  {raising  his  voice).    You  know- 
that  you  recanted  all  you  said 
Touching  the  sacrament  in  that  same 
book  [Chester; 
You  wrote  against  my  Lord  of  Win- 
Dissemble  not  ;  play  the  plain  Chris- 
tian man. 
Cran.    Alas,  my  Lord, 
I  have  been  a  man  loved  plainness 

all  my  life; 
I  did  dissemble,  but  the  hour  has 
come  [fore,  I  say, 

For  utter  truth  and  plainness ;  where- 
I  hold  by  all  I  wrote  within  that  book. 
Moreover,  [christ. 
As  for  the  Pope  I  count  him  Anti- 
With  all  his  devil's  doctrines  ;  and 
refuse,  [said. 
Reject  him,  and  abhor  him.   I  have 
[Cries  on  all  sides,  ''Pull  him 
down!    Away  with  him.  ' 
Cole.    Ay,  stop  the  heretic's  mouth. 

Hale  him  away. 
Will.   Harm  him  not,  harm  him  not, 
have  him  to  the  fire. 


501 

[Cranmer  goes  out  between  two 
Friars,  smiling  ;  hands  are  readied 
to  him  from  the  crowd.  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard  and  Lord  Paget  are 
left  alojie  in  the  church. 
Paget.  The  nave  and  aisles  all 
empty  as  a  fool's  jest  ! 

No,  here's  Lord  William  Howard. 
What,  my  Lord, 

You  have  not  gone  to  see  the  burning! 
IIoiv.  Fie  I 

To  stand  at  ease,  and  stare  as  at  a 
show,  [again. 

And  watch  a  good  man  burn.  Never 

I  saw  the  deaths  of  Latimer  and  Rid- 
ley, [not. 

Moreover,  tho'  a  Catholic,  I  would 

For  the  pure  honor  of  our  common 
nature,  •  [tation 

Hear  what  I  might— another  recan- 

Of  Cranmer  at  the  stake. 
Paget.  You  d  not  hear  that. 

He  pass'd  out  smiling,  and  he  walk'd 
upright ;  [general 

His  eye  was  like  a  soldier's  whom  the 

He  looks  to  and  he  leans  on  as  his 
God, 

Hath  rated  for  some  backwardness 

and  bidd'n  him  [the  man 

Charge  one  against  a  thousand,  and 
Hurls  his  soil'd  life  against  the  pikes 

and  dies.  [all  those  papers 

How.  Yet  that  he  might  not  after 
Of    recantation    yield    again,  who 

knows?  [think  you  then 

Paget.  Papers  of  recantation, 
That  Cranmer  read  all  papers  that 

he  sign'd?  [sign'd? 
Or  sign'd  all  those  they  tell  us  that  he 
Nay,  I  trow  not  :  and  you  shall  see, 

my  Lord, 
That  howsoever  hero-like  the  man 
Dies   in   the   fire,   this  Bonner  or 

another 

Will  in  some  lying  fashion  misreport 
His  ending  to  the  glory  of  their 
church. 

And  you  saw  Latimer  and  Ridley  die? 
Latimer  was  eighty,  was  he  not?  his 
Of  life  was  over  then.  [best 

How.  His  eighty  years 

Look'd  somewhat  crooked  on  him  in 
his  frieze.  [shroud, 
But  after  they  had  stript  him  to  hia 
He  stood  upright,  a  lad  of  twenty-one, 


QUEEN  MABY. 


502 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Act  4. 


And  gather'd  with  his  hands  the 

starting  flame,  [therein. 
And  wash'd  his  hands  and  all  his  face 
Until  the  powder  suddenly  blew  him 

dead.  [died 
Ridley  was  longer  burning  ;  but  he 
As  manfully  and  boldly,  and  'fore 

God,  [lish  ones. 

I  know  them  heretics,  but  right  Eng- 
If  ever,  as  heaven  grant,  we  clash 

with  Spain,  [sailors 
Our  Ridley-soldiers  and  our  Latimer- 
Will  teach  her  something. 

Paget.  Your  mild  Legate  Pole 

Will  tell  you  that  the  devil  helpt 

them  thro*  it.  j 
murmur  of  the  crowd  in  the  dis-  ! 

tance. 

Hark,  how  those  Roman  wolfdogs 

howl  and  bay  him. 
How.    Might  it  not  be  the  other 
side  rejoicing 
In  his  brave  end  ? 
Paget.      They  are  too  crush'd,  too 
broken, 
They  can  but  weep  in  silence. 

How.  Ay,  ay,  Paget, 

They  have  brought  it  in  large  meas- 
ure on  themselves,  [blessed  Host 
Have  I  not  heard  them  mock  the 
In  songs  so  lewd,  the  beast  might 
roar  his  claim  [they? 
To  being  in  God's  image,  more  than 
Have  I  not  seen  the  gamekeeper,  the 
groom,  [son's  place. 

Gardener  and  huntsman,  in  the  par- 
The  parson  from  his  own  spire  swung 
out  dead,  [and  all  men 

And  Ignorance  crying  in  the  streets. 
Regarding  her  ?    I   say  they  have 
drawn  the  iire  [do  hold 

On  their  own  heads:  yet,  Paget,  I 
The  Catholic,  if  he  have  the  greater 
Hath  been  the  crueller,  [right, 
Paget.  Action  and  re-action, 

The  miserable  see-saw  of  our  child- 
world,  [Lord. 
Make  us  despite  it  at  odd  hours,  my 
Heaven  help  that  this  re-action  not 
re-act  [beth, 
Yet   fiercelier  under  Queen  Eliza- 
So  that  she  come  to  rule  us. 
How.  The  world's  mad. 

Paget  My  Lord,  the  world  is  like 
a  drunken  man, 


Who  cannot  Iliove  straight  to  his  end 

— but  reels 
Now  to  the  right,  then  as  far  to  the 

left,  [underfoot 
Push'd  by  the  crowd  beside — and 
An  earthquake;  for  since  Henry  for 

a  doubt —  [the  back. 

Which  a  young  lust  had  clapt  upon 
Crying,      Forward,"— set    our  old 

church  rocking,  men  [or  whether 
Have  hardly  known  what  to  believe. 
They  should  believe  in  any  thing,* 

the  currents  [they  are  borne, 
So  shift  and  change,  they  see  not  how 
Nor  whither.    I  conclude  the  King  a 

beast ; 

Verily  a  lion  if  you  will — the  world 
A  most  obedient  beast  and  fool — my- 
self [to  it ; 
Half  beast  and  fool  as  appertaining 
Altho'  your  Lordship  hath  as  little 
of  each 

Cleaving  to  your  original  Adam-clay, 
As  may  be  consonant  with  mortality. 

How.  We  talk  and  Cranmer  suffers. 
The  kindliest  man  I  ever  knew  ;  see, 

see,  [land  I 

I  speak  of  him  in  the  pdst.  Unhappy 
Hard-natured  Queen,  half  Spanish  in 

herself,  [stock  of  Spain — 

And  grafted  on  the  hard-grain'd 
Her  life,  since  Philip  left  her,  and  she 

lost  [child. 
Her  fierce  desire  of  bearing  him  a 
Hath,  like  a  brief  and  bitter  winter's 

day,  [to  a  close. 

Gone  narrowing  down  and  darkening 
There  will  be  more  conspiracies,  I 

fear. 

Paget.  Ay,  ay,  beware  of  France. 
How.  O  Paget,  Paget! 

I  have  seen  heretics  of  the  poorer 

sort,  [to  day, 

Expectant  of  the  rack  from  day 
To  whom  the  fire  were  welcome,  lying 

chain'd,  [ing  sewers. 

In  breathless  dungeons  over  steam- 
Fed  with  rank  bread  that  crawl'd 

upon  the  tongue,  [worm, 
And  putrid  water,  every  drop  a 
Until  they  died  of  rotted  limbs;  and 

then  [come 
Cast  on  the  dunghill  naked,  and  be- 
Hideously  alive  again  from  head  to 

heel. 


Scene  3 

Made  even  the  carrion-nosing  mon- 
With  hate  and  horror.      [grel  vomit 

Paget  Nay,  you  sicken  me 

To  hear  you. 

How.       Fancy-sick  ;  these  things 
are  done,  [Queen 
Done  right  against  the  promise  of  this 
Twice  given. 

Paget.  No  faith  with  heretics, 

my  Lord  !  [pellers, 
Hist!  there  be  two  old  gossips— gos- 
1  take  it ;  stand  behind  the  pillar 
here ;  [burning. 
I  warrant  you  they  talk  about  the 
Enter  Two  Old  Women.  Joan,  and 
after  her  Tib. 

Joan.   Why,  it  be  Tib. 

Tib.  I  cum  behind  tha,  gall,  and 
couldn't  make  tha  hear.  Eh,  the 
wind  and  the  wet !  What  a  day,  what 
a  day  !  nigh  upo'  judgment  daay  1 
loike.  Pwoaps  be  pretty  things,  ! 
Joan,  but  they  wunt  set  i'  the  Lords' 
cheer  o'  that  daay. 

Joan.  I  must  set  down  myself, 
Tib  ;  it  be  a  var  waay  vor  my  owld 
legs  up  vro'  Islip.  Eh,  my  rheuma- 
tizy  be  that  bad  howiver  be  I  to  win 
to  the  burnin'. 

Tib.  I  should  saay  'twur  ower  by 
now.  I'd  ha'  been  here  avore,  but 
Dumble  wur  blow'd  wi'  the  wind,  and 
Dumble's  the  best  milcher  in  Islip. 

Joan.    Our  Daisy's  as  good  'z  her. 

Tib.    Noa,  Joan. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy's  butter's  as  good 
Tib.    Noa,  Joan.  ['z  hern. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy's  cheeses  be  bet- 
Tib.  Noa,  Joan.  [ter. 
Joan.    Eh.  then  ha'  thy  waay  wi' 

me,  Tib  :  ez  thou  hast  wi'  thy  owld 

man. 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan,  and  my  owld  man 
wur  up  and  awaay  betimes  wi'  dree 
hard  eggs  for  a  good  pleace  at  the 
burnin' ;  an.l  barrin'  the  wet,  Hodge 
'ud  ha'  been  a-harrowin'  o'  white 
peasen  i'  the  outfield— and  barrin' 
the  wind,  Dumble  wur  blow'd  wi'  the 
wind,  so  'z  we  was  forced  to  stick 
her,  but  we  fetched  her  round  at  last. 
Thank  the  Lord  therevore.  Dumble's 
the  best  milcher  in  Islip. 

Joan.  Thou's  thy  wav  wi'  man  and 
beast,  Tib.  I  wonder  at  tha',  it  beats 


503 

me  !    Eh,  but  I  do  know  ez  Pwoaps 

and  vires  be  bad  things  ;  tell  'ee  now, 
I  heerd  summat  as  summun  towld 
summun  o'  owld  Bishop  Gardiner's 
end  ;  there  wur  an  owld  lord  a-cum 
to  dine  wi'  un,  and  a  wur  so  owld  a 
couldn't  bide  vor  his  dinner, but  a  had 
to  bide  howsomiver,  vor,    "I  wunt 
dine,"  says  my  Lord  Bishop,  says 
he,  "not  till  I  hears  ez  Latimer  and 
Ridley  be  a-vire  ;"  and  so  they  bided 
on  and  on  till  vour  o'clock,  till  his 
man  cum  in  post  vro'  here,  and  tells 
un  ez  the  vire  has  tuk  holt,  ''Now,'" 
says  the  bishop,  says  he,  "we'll  gwb 
to  dinner  ;"  and  the  owld  lord  fell  to 
's  meat  wi'  a  will,  God  bless  un  ;  but 
Gardiner  wur  struck  down  like  by  the 
hand  o'  God  avore  a  could  taste  a 
mossel,  and  a  set  him  all  a-vire,  so  'z 
I  the  tongue  on  un  cum  a  loUuping  out 
!  o"  'is  mouth,  as  black  as  a  rat.  Thank 
the  Lord,  therevore. 
Paget.    The  fools  ! 
Tib.    Ay,  Joan  ;  and  Queen  Mary 
gwoes  on  a-burain'  and  a  burnin',  to 
git   her   baaby   born  ;  but  all  her 
burnins'    'ill    never   burn   out  the 
hypocrisy  that  makes  the  water  in 
her.    There's  nought  but  the  vire  of 
God's  hell  ez  can  burn  out  that. 
Joa?i.    Thank  the  Lord,  therevore. 
Paget.    The  fools  ! 
Tib.  A-burnin',  and  a-burnin',  and  a- 
makin'  o'  volk  madder  and  madder  ; 
but  tek  thou  ray  word  vor  t,  Joan,  - 
and  I  bean't  wrong  not  twice  i'  ten 
year — the  burnin'  o'  the  owld  arch- 
bishop 'ill  burn  the  Pwoap  out  o'  this 
'ere  land  vor  iver  and  iver. 
Hoiv.    Out  of  the  church,  you  brace 
of  cursed  crones. 
Or  I  will  have  you  duck'd. 

[Women  hurry  out. 
Said  I  not  right  ? 
For  how  should  reverend  prelate  or 
throned  prince  [nity  ? 

Brook  for  an  hour  such  brute  malig- 
Ah,  what  an  acrid  wine  has  Luther 
brew'd  ! 

Paget.    Pooh,  pooh,  my  Lord  !  poor 
garrulous  countrywives. 
Buy  you  their  cheeses,  and  they'll 
side  with  you  ;  [the  lees. 

I  You 'cannot  judge  the  liquor  from 


QUEEN  3fARY. 


504  Q  UEEN  MAR  Y. 

How.   I  think  that  in  some  sort  we 
may.    But  see^ 


Act^ 


Enter  Peters. 
Peters,  my  gentleman,   an  honest 
Catholic,  [Cranmer's  fire. 

Who  followed  with  the  crowd  to 
One  that  would  neither  misreport 
nor  lie,  [Pope 
Not  to  gain  paradise  :  no,  nor  if  the 
Charged  him  to  do  it— he  is  white  as 
death.  [the  smoke 

Peters,  how  pale  you  look  !  you  bring 
Of  Cranmer's  burning  with  you 

Pet.  Twice  or  thrice 

The  smoke  of   Cranmer's  burning 
wrapt  me  round. 
How.    Peters,  you  know  me  Catho- 
lic, but  English.  [or  leave 
Did  he  die  bravely?  Tell  me  that, 
All  else  untold. 
Pet.  My  Lord,  he  died  most  bravely. 
How.    Then  tell  me  all. 
Paget.     Ay,  Master  Peters,  tell  us. 
Pet.    You  saw  him  how  he  passed 
among  the  crowd ;  [friars 
And  ever  as  he  walk'd  the  Spanish 
Still  plied  him  with  entreaty  and  re- 
proach: [helm 
But  Cranmer,  as  the  helmsman  at  the 
Steers,  ever  looking  to  the  happy 
haven                        [his  death; 
Where  he  shall  rest  at  night,  moved  to 
And  I  could  see  that  many  silent 
hands                 [own;  and  thus, 
Came  from  the  crowd  and  met  his 
When  we  had  come  where  Ridley 
burnt  with  Latimer,  [whose  mind 
He,  with  a  cheerful  smile,   as  one 
Is  all  made  up,  in  haste  put  off  the 
rags                         [all  in  white. 
They  had  mocked  his  misery  with,  and 
His  long  white  beard,  which  he  had 
never  shaven           [to  the  chain, 
Since  Henry's  death,  down-sweeping 
Wherewith  they  bound  him  to  the 
stake,  he  stood,  [Church, 
More  like  an  ancient  father  of  the 
Than  heretic  of  these  times;  and  still 
the  friars                    [his  head, 
Plied  him,  but  Cranmer  only  shook 
Or  answer'd  them  in  smiling  nega- 
tives;                       [den  cry  :— 
Whereat  Lord  Williams  gave  a  sud- 
" Make  short!  make  short!"  and  so 
they  lit  the  wood. 


Then  Cranmer  lifted  his  left  hand  t« 
heaven. 

And  thrust  his  right  into  the  bitter 
flame;  *  [than  once. 

And  crying,  in  his  deep  voice,  more 
"This  hath  offended— this  unworthy 
hand!" 

So  held  it  till  all  was  burn'd,  before 
The  flame  had  reach'd  his  body;  I 
stood  near—  [of  pain: 

Mark'd  him— he  never  uttered  moan 
He  never  stirr'd  or  writhed,  but,  like 
a  statue,  [flame, 
Unmoving  in  the  greatness  of  the 
Gave  up  the  ghost;  and  so  past  mar- 
tyr-like— [but  whither? 
Martyr  I  may  not  call  him — past — 
Paget.    To  purgatory,  man,  to  pur- 
gatory, [purgatory. 
Pet.    Nay,  but,  my  Lord,  he  denied 
Paget.    Why  then  to  heaven,  and 

God  ha'  mercy  on  him. 
How.     Paget,  despite  his  fearful 
heresies,  [moan  for  him; 

I  loved  the  man,  and  needs  must 

0  Cranmer  !  [now: 
Paget.    But  your  moan  is  useless 

Come  out,  my  Lord,  it  is  a  world  of 
fools.  [Exeunt. 

ACT.  V. 

Scene  I. — London.  Hall  in  the  Palace. 
Queen,  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 
Heath.    Madam,  [look'd  to: 

1  do  assure  you,  that  it  must  be 
Calais  is  but  ill-garrison'd,  in  Guisnes 
Are  scarce  two  hundred  men,  and  the 

French  fleet  [look'd  to. 

Rule  in  the  narrow  seas.  It  m  st  be 
If  war  should  fall  between  yourself 

and  France; 
Or  you  will  lose  your  Calais. 

Mary.  It  shall  be  look  d  to; 

I  wish  you  a  good-morning,  good  Sir 

Nicholas: 
Here  is  the  King.  [Exit  Heath. 

Enter  Philip. 
Phi.        Sir  Nicholas  tells  you  true, 
And  you  must  look  to  Calais  when  I 
go.  [again — so  soon? 

Mary.    Go!  must  you  go,  indeed — 
Why,  nature's  licensed  vagabond,  the 
swallow, 


Scene 

That  might  live  always  in  the  sun's 

warm  heart, 
Stays  longer  here  in  our  poor  north 

than  you: —  [again. 
Knows  where  he  nested — ever  comes 
Phi.    And,  Madam,  so  shall  I. 
Mary.  O,  will  you  ?  will  you  ? 

I  am  faint  with  fear  that  you  will 

come  no  more.  [me  hence. 

P?ii.    Ay,  ay;  but  many  voices  call 
Mary.    Voices— I  hear  unhappy  ru- 
mors— nay, 
I  say  not,  I  believe.    What  voices 

call  you  [est  to  you? 

Dearer  than  mine  that  should  be  dear- 
Alas,  my  Lord;  what  voices  and  how 

many?  [agon, 
PM.    The  voices  of  Castile  and  Ar- 
Granada,  Naples,  Sicily  and  Milan, — 
The  voices  of  Franche-Comte  and 

the  Netherlands. 
The  voices  of  Peru  and  Mexico. 
Tunis,  and  Oran,  and  the  Phillipines. 
And  all  the  fair  spice-islands  of  the 

East. 

Mary  (admiringly).    You  are  the 
mightiest  monarch  upon  earth, 
I  but  a  little  Queen;  and  so,  indeed. 
Need  you  the  more;  and  wherefore 
could  you  not  [my  liege, 

Helm  the  huge  vessel  of  your  state, 
Here,  by  the  side  of  her  who  loves 
you  most  ?  [in  the  sun 

Phi.    No,  Madam,  no  !    a  candle 
Is  all  but  smoke— a  star  beside  the 
moon  [crown  me — 

Is  all  but  lost ;  your  people  will  not 
Your  people  are  as  cheerless  as  your 
clime  ;         [brawls,  the  gibbets. 
Hate   me  and  mine  :  witness  the 
Here  swings  a  Spaniard— there  an 
Englishman;  [plexion; 
The  peoples  are'  unlike  as  their  com- 
Yet  will  I  be  your  swallow  and  re- 
turn— 
But  now  I  cannot  bide. 

Mary.  Not  to  help  me  ? 

They  hate  me  also  for  my  love  to  you, 
My  Philip;  and  these  judgments  on 
the  land —  [plague- 
Harvestless  autumns,  horrible  ague, 
Phi.  The  blood  and  sweat  of  here- 
tics at  ftie  stake 
Is  God's  best  dew  upon  the  barren 
field. 


505 

Burn  more  ! 
Mary.  I  will,  I  will :  and  you 

will  stay.  [came  to  sue 

Phi.    Have  I  not  said  ?  Madam,  I 
Your  Council  and  yourself  to  declare 
war.  [in  your  ranks 

Mary.  Sir,  there  are  many  English 
To  help  your  battle. 

Phi.  So  far,  good.    I  say 

I  carae  to  sue  your  Council  and  your- 
self [France. 
To  declare  war  against  the  King  of 
Mary.  \    Not  to  see  me  ? 

Phi  Ay,  Madam,  to  see  you. 

Unalterably  and  pesteringly  fond! 

\_Aside. 

But,  soon  or  late  you  must  have  war 
with  France  ;  [his  hearth. 

King  Henry  warms  your  traitors  at 

Carew  is  there,  and  Thomas  Stafford 

Courtenay,  belike—  [there. 
Mary.         A  fool  and  teatherhead! 
Phi  '.  Ay,  but  they  use  his  name. 
In  brief,  this  Henry     [the  intent 

Stirs  up  your  land  against  you  to 

That  you  may  lose  your  English  her- 
itage, [marrying 

And  then,  your  Scottish  namesake 

The  Dauphin,  he  would  weld  France, 
England,  Scotland,         [and  me. 

Into  one  sword   to   hack  at  Spain 
Mary.    And  yet  the  Pope  is  now 
colleagued  with  France; 

You  make  your  wars  upon  him  down 
in  Italy  : — 

Philip,  can  that  be  well  ? 
Phi.  Content  you.  Madam; 

You  must  abide  my  judgment,  and 
my  father's,  [war. 

Who  deems  it  a  most  just  and  holy 

The  Pope  would  cast  the  Spaniard 
out  of  Naples:  [Saracens. 

He  calls  us  worse  than  Jews,  Moors, 

The  Pope  has  pushed  his  horns  be- 
yond his  mitre — 

Beyond  his  province.  Now, 

Duke  Alva  will  but  touch  him  on  the 
horns,  [head — 

And  he  withdraws;  and  of  his  holy 

For  Alva  is  true  son  of  the  true 
church —  [help  me  here? 

No  hair  is  harm'd.     Will  you  not 
Mary.    Alas  !  the  Council  will  not 
hear  of  war.  [of  England. 

They  say  your  wars  are  not  the  wars 


QUEEN  MARY. 


506 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Act  5 


They  will  not  lay  more  taxes  on  a 
land  [you  know 

So  hunger-nipt  and  wretched  ;  and 
The  crown  is  poor.    We  have  given 

the  church-lands  back: 
The  nobles  would  not ;  nay,  they  clapt 
their  hands  [therefore  God 

Upon  their  swords  when  ask'd ;  and 
Is  hard  upon  the  people.    What's  to 
be  done?  [again, 
Sir,  I  will  move  them  in  your  cause 
And  we  will  raise  us  loans  and  subsi- 
dies [Thomas  Gresham 
Among    the    merchants  ;    and  Sir 
Will  aid  us.  There  is  Antwerp  and  the 
Jews. 

Phi.    Madame,  my  thanks.  [ing? 
Mary.    And  you  will  stay  your  go- 
Phi.    And   further  to  discourage 
and  lay  lame  [her  not, 

The  plots  of  France,  altho'  you  love 
You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your 
heir.  [Queen  of  Scots. 

She    stands  beyond  you  and  the 
Mary.    The  Queen  of  Scots  at  least 

is  Catholic. 
Phi.    Ay,  Madam,  Catholic  ;  but  I 
will  not  have  [land  too. 

The  King  of  France  the  King  of  Eng- 
Mary.    But  she's  a  heretic,  and, 
when  I  am  gone, 
Brings  the  new  learning  back. 

Phi.  It  must  be  done. 

You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your 
heir. 

Mary.  Then  it  is  done  ;  but  you 
will  stay  your  going  [pose? 
Somewhat  beyond  your  settled  pur- 

Phi.  No! 

Mary.   What,  not  one  day? 

P?d.  You  beat  upon  the  rock. 

Mary.    And  I  am  broken  there. 

Phi.  Is  this  a  place 

To  wail  in.  Madam?  what!  a  public 
hall. 

Go  in,  I  pray  you. 

Mary.  Do  not  seem  so  changed. 
Say  go;  but  only  say  it  lovingly. 

Phi.    You  do  mistake.   I  am  not 
one  to  change. 
I  never  loved  you  more. 

Mary.  Sire,  I  obey  you. 

Come  quickly. 

Phi.  Ay,  [Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria. 


Per.  (aside.)  The  Queen  in  tears. 
Phi.  Ferial 
Hast  thou  not  mark'd— come  closer 
to  mine  ear —  [hath  grown 

How  doulDly  aged  this  Queen  of  ours 
Since  she  lost  hope  of  bearing  us  a 
child? 

Per.      Sire,  if   your  Grace  hath 

mark'd  it,  so  have  I. 
Phi.  Hast  thou  not  likewise  mark'd 
Elizabeth,  [deed? 
How  fair  and  royal — like  a  Queen,  in- 
Fer.    Allow  me  the  same  answer  as 
before —  [so  have  I. 

That  if  your  grace  hath  mark'd  her. 
Phi,    Good,    now  ;   methinks  my 
Queen  is  like  enough 
To  leave  by  and  by. 
Per.  To  leave  you,  sire? 

Phi.   I  mean  not  like  to  live.  Eliza- 
beth— 

To  Philibert  of  Savoy,  as  you  know. 
We  meant  to  wed  her;  but  I  am  not 
sure  [Queen 
She  will  not  serve  me  better — so  my 
Would  leave  me— as — my  wife. 
Per.  Sire,  even  so. 

Phi.    She  will   not   have  Prince 

Philibert  of  Savoy. 
Per.    No,  sire.  [odd  time, 

Phi.    I  have  to  pray  you,  some 
To  sound  the  Princess  carelessly  on 
this; 

Not  as  from  me,  but  as  your  fantasy; 
And  tell  me  how  she  takes  it. 
Per.  Sire,  I  will. 

Phi.    I  am  not  certain  but  that 
Philibert  [his  suit 

Shall  be  the  man;  and  I  shall  urge 
Upon  the  Queen,  because  I  am  not 

cortain: 
You  understand,  Feria. 
Per.  Sire,  I  do. 

Phi.    And  if  you  be  not  secret  in 
this  matter. 
You  understand  me  there,  too? 
Per.  Sire,  I  do. 

Phi.    You  must  be  sweet  and  sup- 
ple, like  a  Frenchman. 
She  is  none  of  those  who  loathe  the 
honeycomb.  [Exit  Feria. 

Enter  Renard. 
Ren.    My  liege,  I  bring  you  goodly 
tidings. 


Scene  2 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Phi.  Well. 
Ren.  There  will  be  war  with  France, 
at  last,  my  liege;  [ass, 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  a  bull-headed 
Sailing  from  France,  with  thirty  Eng- 
lishmen, [of  York; 
Hath  taken  Scarboro'  Castle,  north 
Proclaims  himself  protector,  and  af- 
firms [to  reign 
The  Queen  has  forfeited  her  right 
By  marriage  with  an  alien — other 
things 

As  idle;  a  weak  Wyatt!  Little  doubt 
This  buzz  will  soon  be  silenced!  but 

the  Council  [for  war. 

(I  have  talk'd  with  some  already)  are 
This  is  the  fifth  conspiracy  hatch'd 

in  France;  [your  Grace, 

They  show  their  teeth  upon  it;  and 
So  you  will  take  advice  of  mine, 

should  stay  [the  event. 

Yet  for  awhile,  to  shape  and  guide 
Phi.    Good!   Renard,  I  will  stay 

then. 

Ren.  Also,  sire. 

Might  I  not  say — to  please  your  wife, 
the  Queen?  [it  so. 

Phi.  Ay,  Renard,  if  you  care  to  put 
\_Exeunt. 

Scene  11.— A  Room  in  the  Palace. 
Mary  and  Cardinal  Pole. 
Lady  Clarence  and  Alice  in  the  hack- 
ground. 

Mary.    Reginald  Pole,  what  news 
hath  plagued  thy  heart  ? 
What  makes  thy  favor  like  the  blood- 
less head  [the  hair? 
Fall'n  on  the  block,  and  held  up  by 
Philip?— 

Pole.  No,  Philip  is  as  warm  in  life 
As  ever. 

Mary.  Ay,  and  then  as  cold  as  ever. 
Is  Calais  taken? 

Pole.  Cousin,  there  hath  chanced 
A  sharper  harm  to  England  and  to 
Rome, 

Than  Calais  taken.  Julius  the  Third 
Was  ever  just,  and  mild,  and  father- 
like; [Fourth, 
But  this  new  Pope  Caraffa,  Paul  the 
Not  only  reft  me  of  that  legateship 
Which  Julius  gave  me,  and  the  legate- 
ship 


Annex'd  to   Canterbury — nay,  but 
worse — 

And  yet  I  must  obey  the  holy  father. 
And  so  must  you,  good  cousin;— 

worse  than  all, 
A  passing  bell  toU'd  in  a  dying  ear — 
He  hath  cited  me  to  Rome,  for  her- 
esy, 

Before  his  Inquisition. 
Mary.  I  knew  it,  cousin. 

But  held  from  you  all  papers  sent  by 
Rome,  [the  Pope, 

That  you  might  rest  among  us,  till 

To  compass  which  I  wrote  myself  to 
Rome,  [might  not  seem 

Reversed  his  doom,  and  that  you 

To  disobey  his  Holiness. 
Pole.  He  hates  Philip; 

He  is  all  Italian,  and  he  hates  the 
Spaniard;  [war; 

He  cannot  dream  that  /  advised  the 

He  strikes  thro'  me  at  Philip  and 
yourself.  [me  too; 

Nay,  but  I  know  it  of  old,  he  hates 

So  brands  me  in  the  star  of  Christen- 
dom 

A  heretic! 

Now,  even  now,  when  bow'd  before 
my  time,  [out; 
The  house  half-ruin'd  ere  the  lease  be 
When  I  should  guide  the  Church  in 
peace  at  home,  [ment, 
After  my  twenty  years  of  banish- 
And  all  my  lifelong  labor  to  uphold 
The  primacy — a  heretic.    Long  ago. 
When  I  was  ruler  in  the  patrimony, 
I  was  too  lenient  to  the  Lutheran, 
And  I  and  learned  friends  among  our- 
selves [anisms. 
Would  freely  canvass  certain  Luther- 
What  then,  he  knew  I  was  no  Lu- 
A  heretic !  [theran. 
He  drew  this  shaft  against  me  to  the 
head,  [chosen  Pope, 

When  it  was  thought  I  might  be 
But  then  withdrew  it.    In  full  con- 
sistory, [proved  me. 
When  I  was  made  Archbishop,  he  ap- 
And  how  should  he  have  sent  me  Le- 
gate hither,  [esy  since? 
Deeming  me  heretic?  and  what  her- 
But  he  was  evermore  mine  enemy, 
And  hates  the  Spaniard— fiery-chol- 
eric, [wines, 
A  drinker  of  black,  strong,  volcania 


508 


QUEEN 


MARY. 


Act  5 


That  ever  make  him  fierier.    I,  a  her- 
etic! [ing  heresy 
Your  Highness  knows  that  in  pursu- 
I  have  gone  beyond  your  late  Lord 
Chancellor, —           [his  death. — 
He  cried  enough!    enough!  before 
Gone  beyond  him  and  mine  own  nat- 
ural man  [me  now, 
(It  was  God's  cause);  so  far  they  call 
The  scourge  and  butcher  of  their 
English  church. 
Mart/.    Have  courage,  your  reward 
is  Heaven  itself.       [into  the  fire 
Pole  They  groan  amen;  they  swarm 
Like  flies— for  what  ?    no  dogma. 

They  know  nothing. 
They  burn  for  nothing. 
Mary.      You  have  done  your  best. 
Pole.    Have  done  my  best,  and  as  a 
faithful  son,  [father's  work, 

That  all  day  long  hath  wrought  his 
When  back  he  comes  at  evening  hath 
the  door  [loved, 
Shut  on  him  by  the  father  whom  he 
His  early  follies  cast  into  his  teeth. 
And  the  poor  son  turn'd  out  into  the 
street  [cousin. 
To  sleep,  to  die — I  shall  die  of  it, 
Mary.    I  pray  you  be  not  so  dis- 
consolate ;  [Pope, 
I  still  will  do  my  utmost  with  the 
Poor  cousin.  [your  life 

Have  I  not  been  the  fast  friend  of 
Since  mine  began,  and  it  was  thought 
we  two  [each  other 

Might  make  one  flesh,  and  cleave  unto 
As  man  and  wife. 

Pole.  Ah,  cousin,  I  remember 

How  I  would  dandle  you  upon  my 
knee  [dancing  once 

At    lisping-age.       I    watch'd  you 
With   your  huge  father;  he  look'd 
the  Great  Harry,  [did  it. 

You  but  his  cockboat  ;  prettily  you 
And  innocently.  No — we  were  not 
made  [here; 
One  flesh  in  happiness,  no  happiness 
But  now  we  are  made  one  flesh  in 
misery;  [appointment, 
Our  bridemaids  are  not  love-ly— Dis- 
Ingratitude,  Injustice,  Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary.  Surely,  not  all  in  vain. 

Peace,  cousin,  peace!   I  am  sad  at 
heart  myself. 


Pole.    Our  altar  is  a  mound  of  dead 
men's  clay, 
Dug  from  the  grave  that  yawns  for 
us  beyond;  [the  Groom, 

And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind 
And  there  is  one  Death  stands  be- 
hind the  Bride — 
Mary.  Have  you  been  looking  at  the 

"Dance  of  Death"? 
Pole.    No;  but  these  libellous  pa- 
pers which  I  found 
Str-^wn  in  your  palace.     Look  you 
here — the  Pope  [tic, 
Pointing  at  me  with  "Pole,  the  here- 
Thou  hast  burnt    others,    do  thou 
burn  thyself,  [see! — 

Or  I  will  burn  thee,"  and  this  other; 
"We  pray  continually  for  the  death 
Of  our  accursed  Queen  and  Cardinal 
Pole." 

This  last — I  dare  not  read  it  her. 

[Aside. 

Mary.  Away ! 

Why  do  you  bring  me  these? 
I  thought  you  knew  me  better.  I 

never  read,  [my  dreams. 

I  tear  them:  they  come  back  upon 
The  hands  that  write  them  should  be 

burnt  clean  off  [utter  them 

As  Cranmer's,  and  the  fiends  that 
Tongue-torn  with  pincers,  lash'd  to 

death,  or  lie  [ish'd  rats 

Famishing  in  black  cells,  while  fam- 
Eat  them  alive.     Why  do  they  bring 

me  these  ? 
Do  you  mean  to  drive  me  mad  ? 

Pole.  I  had  forgotten 

How  these  poor  libels  trouble  you. 

Your  pardon,  [ble  world, 

Sweet  cousin,  and  farewell!  "O  bub- 
Whose  colors  in  a  moment  break  and 

fly!"  [true  enough! 

Why,  who  said  that?  I  know  not — 
[Puts  tip  the  papers,  all  but  the  last., 

which  falls. 

[ExWPole. 

Alice.    If  Cranmer's  spirit  were  a 
mocking  one  [sport  for  him. 

And  heard  these  two,  there  might  be 
[A.^ide. 

Mary.    Clarence,  they   hate  me  ; 
even  while  I  speak 
There  lurks  a  silent  dagger,  listening 
In  some  dark  closet,  some  lo«g  gal- 
lery, drawn, 


Scene  2 

And  panting  for  my  blood  as  I  go  by. 
Lady  C.    Nay,  Madam,  there  be 
loyal  papers  too. 
And  I  have  often  found  them. 
Mary.  Find  me  one  I 

Lady  C.   Ay,  Madam;  but  Sir  Nich- 
olas Heath,  the  Chancellor, 
Would  see  your  Highness. 
Mary.  Wherefore  should  I  see  him? 
Lady  C.    Well,  Madam,  he  may 

bring  you  news  from  Philip. 
Mary.    So,  Clarence. 
Lady.  C.    Let  me  first  put  up  your 
It  tumbles  all  abroad.  [hair; 

Mary.  And  the  gray  dawn 

Of  an  old  age  that  never  will  be  mine 
Is  all  the  clearer  seen.    No,  no;  what 
matters? 

Forlorn  I  am,  and  let  me  look  forlorn. 
Enter  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 
Heath.    I  bring  your  Majesty  such 
grievous  news  [is  taken. 

I  grieve  to  bring  it.    Madam,  Calais 
Mary.    What  traitor  spoke?  Here, 
let  my  cousin  Pole  [ran. 
Seize  him  and  burn  him  for  a  Luthe- 
Heath.    Her  Highness  is  unwell.  I 

will  retire. 
Lady  C.    Madam,  your  chancellor, 

Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 
Mary.    Sir  Nicholas?  I  am  stunn'd 
—Nicholas  Heath  ?        [the  head. 
Methought  some  traitor  smote  me  on 
What  said  you,  mv  good  Lord,  that 
our  brave  English     [driven  back 
Had  sallied  out   from  Calais  and 
The  Frenchmen  from  their  trenches? 

Heath.  Alas  !  no. 

That  gateway  to  the  mainland  over 
which  [years 
Our  flag  hath  floated  for  two  hundred 
Is  France  again. 

Mary.  So;  but  it  is  not  lost — 

Not  yet.    Send  out:  let  England  as 
of  old  [into 
Rise  lionlike,  strike  hard  and  deep 
The  prey  they  are  rending  from  her 
— ay,  and  rend      [out,  and  make 
The  renders  too.     Send   out,  send 
Musters  in  all  the  counties;  gather  all 
From  sixteen  years  to  sixty;  collect 
the  fleet;  [gun 
Let  every  craft  that  carries  sail  and 
Steer  towards  Calais.    Guisnes  is  not 
taken  yet  ? 


Heath.  Guisnes  is  not  taken  yet. 
Mary.  There  yet  is  hope. 

Heath.  Ah,  Madam,  but  your  people 
are  so  cold;  [care. 
I  do  much  fear  that  England  will  not 
Methinks  there  is  no  manhood  left 
among  us. 
Mary.    Send  out;  I  am  too  weak  to 
to  stir  abroad:  [Parliament: 
Tell  my  mind  to  the  Council — to  the 
Proclaim  it  to  the  winds.    Thou  art 
cold  thyself  [I  were 

To  babble  of  their  coldness.  O  would 
My  father  for  an  hour  !  Away  now — 
quick  !  {Exit  Heath. 

I  hoped  I  had  served  God  with  all  my 
might  ! 

It  seems  I  have  not.  Ah!  much  heresy 
Sheltered  in  Calais.    Saints,  I  have 

rebuilt  [ages; 
Your  shrines,  set  up  your  broken  im- 
Be  comfortable  to  me.    Suffer  not 
That  my  brief  reign  in  England  be 

defamed  [after 
Thro'  all  her  angry  chronicles  here- 
By  loss  of  Calais,    Grant  me  Calais. 

Philip,  [Father 
We  have  made  war  upon  the  Holy 
All  for  your  sake:  what  good  could 

come  of  that  ? 
Lady  C.    No,  Madam,  not  against 

the  Holy  Father; 
You  did  but  help  King  Philip's  war 

with  France, 
Your  troops  were  never  down  in  Italy. 
Ma?^y.   I  am  a  byword.  Heretic 

and  rebel  [gone  I 

Point  at  me  and  make  merry.  Philip 
And  Calais  gone!  Time  that  I  were 

gone  too!  [had  a  voice 

Lady  C.  Nay,  if  the  fetid  gutter 
And  cried  I  was  not  clean,  what 

should  I  care? 
Or  you,   for  heretic  cries  !   And  1 

believe,  [las. 
Spite  of  your  melancholy,  Sir  Nicho- 
Your  England  is  as  loyal  as  myself. 
Mary   {seeing  the  paper  dropt  by 

Pole).   There,  there  !  another  pa- 
per !  Said  you  not 
Many  of  these  were  loyal?  Shall 
If  this  be  one  of  such?  [I  try 

Lady  C.  Let  it  be,  let  it  be. 

G©d  pardon  me  !  I  have  never  yet 

found  one.  [Aside. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


510 

Mary  (reads).    "  Your  people  hate 
you  as  your  husband  hates  you." 
Clarence,  Clarence,  what  have  I  done  ? 

what  sin  [Mother  of  God, 

Beyond    all    grace,    all    pardon  ? 
Thou  knpwest  never  woman  meant 
so  well,  [world. 
And  fared  so  ill  in  this  disastrous 
My  people  hate  me  and  desire  my 
Lady  C.    No,  Madam,  no.  [death. 
Mary.    My  husband  hates  me,  and 
desires  my  death.  [bels. 
Zady  C.    No  Madam;  these  are  li- 
Mary.    I  hate  myself,  and  I  desire 
my  death.      [Shall  Alice  sing  you 
Lady  C.    Long  live  your  Majesty! 
One  of  her  pleasant  songs?  Alice,  my 
child,         [say  the  gloom  of  Saul 
Bring  us  your  lute  (Alice  goes).  They 
Was  lighten'd  by  young  David's  harp. 

Mary.  Too  young ! 

And  never  knew  a  Philip  {re-enter 

Alice).  Give  me  the  lute. 
He  hates  me! 

{She  sings.) 
Hapless  doom  of  woman  happy  in  be- 
trothi7ig! 

Beauty  passes  like  a  breath  and  love  is 

lost  in  loathing : 
Low,  oyiy  lute  ;  speak  low.,  my  lute.,  bid 

say  the  world  is  nothing — 
Low.,  lute,  low! 
Love  will  hover  round  thefloivers  when 

they  first  awaken ; 
Love  wilt  fly  the  fallen  leaf  and  not 

be  overtaken  ; 
Low,  my  lute!  oh  low,  my  lute!  we  fade 

and  are  forsaken — 

Low,  dear  lute,  low  ! 
Take  it  away !  not  low  enough  for  me ! 
Alice.  Your  Grace  hath  alow  voice. 
Mary.  How  dare  you  say  it? 

Even  for  that  he  hates  me.  Alow  voice 
Lost  in  a  wilderness  where  none  can 

hear!  [sea! 
A  voice  of  shipwreck  on  a  shoreless 
A  low  voice  from  the  dust  and  from 

the  grave,  {sitting  on  the  ground). 
There,  am  1  low  enough  now? 

Alice.    Good  Lord,  how  grim  and 

ghastly  looks  her  Grace, 
With  both  her  knees  drawn  upward 

to  her  chin. 


Act^ 

There  was  an  old-world  tomb  beside 

my  father's. 
And  this  was  open'd,  and  the  dead 
were  found  [a  corpse. 

Sitting,  and  in  this  fashion;  she  looks 
Enter  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres. 
LadyM.   Madam,  the  Count  de  Fe- 
ria  waits  without, 
In  hopes  to  see  your  Highness. 
Lady  C.  {pointing  to  Mary).  Wait 
he  must —  [nor  hears, 

Her  trance  again.  She  neither  sees 
And  may  not  speak  for  hours. 

Lady  M.  Un happiest 

Of  Queens  and  wives  and  women 
Alice  {in  the  foreground  ivith  l^ady 
Magdalen).  And  all  along 

Of  Philip. 
LadyM.     Not  so  loud!  Our  Clar- 
ence there  [Queen, 
Sees  ever  such  an  aureole  round  the 
It  gilds  the  greatest  wronger  of  her 
peace. 

Who  stands  the  nearest  to  her. 

Alice.  Ay,  this  Philip; 

I  used  to  love  the  Queen  with  all  my 
heart —  [less 
God  help  me,  but  methinks  I  love  her 
For  such  a  dotage  upon  such  a  man. 
I  would  I  were  as  tall  and  strong  as 
you.  [to  be  so  tall. 

Lady  M.  I  seem  half-shamed  at  times 
Alice.    You  are  the  stateliest  deer 
in  all  the  herd —  [scandalous, 
Beyond  his  aim— but  I  am  small  and 
And  love  to  hear  bad  tales  of  Philip. 

LadyM.  Why? 
I  never  heard  him  utter  worse  of  you 
Than  that  you  were  low-statured. 

Alice.  Does  he  think 

Low  statur-e  is  low  nature,   or  all 
women's 

Low  as  his  own?  [nail. 

LadyM.    There  you  strike  in  the 
This  coarseness  is  a  want  of  fantasy. 
It  is  the  low  man  thinks  the  woman 
low; 

Sin  is  too  dull  to  see  beyond  himself. 

Alice.  Ah,  Magdalen,  sin  is  bold  as 
How  dared  he?  [well  as  dull. 

Lady  M.    Stupid  soldiers  oft  are 
bold.  [eralsees. 
Poor  lads,  they  see  not  what  the  gen^ 
A  risk  of  utter  ruin.    I  am  not 
Beyond  has  aim,  or  was  not. 


QUEEN-  MARY. 


Scene  2 

Alice  Who?   Not  you? 

Tell,  tell  me:  save  my  credit  with  my- 
self, [bird  in  the  eaves, 
Lady  M.    I  never  breathed  it  to  a 
Would  notf  orall  the  stars  and  maiden 
moon 

Our  drooping  queen  should  know  ! 
In  Hampton  Court 

My  window  look'd  upon  the  corridor; 

And  I  was  robing  ;— this  poor  throat 
of  mine,  [it, — 

Barer  than  I  should  wish  a  man  to  see 

When  he  we  speak  of  drove  the  win- 
dow back,  [hand; 

And,  like  a  thief,  push'd  in  his  royal 

But  by  God's  providence  a  good 
stout  staff 

Lay  near  me ;  and  you  know  me 
strong  of  arm  ; 

I  do  believe  I  lamed  his  Majesty's 

For  a  day  or  two,  tho',  give  the  Devil 
his  due, 

I  never  found  he  bore  me  any  sp  te. 
Alice.    I  would  she  could  have  wed- 
ded that  pooryouth, 
My  Lord    of   Devon— light  enough, 
God  knows,  [the  boy 

And  mixt  with  Wyatt's  rising — and 
Not   out  of  him— but  neither  cold, 

coarse,  cruel. 
And  more  than  all— no  Spaniard. 

Lady  G.  Not  so  loud. 

Lord  Devon,  girls  !  what  are  you 
whispering  here? 
Alice.    Probing  an  old  state-secret 
— how  it  chanced    [foreign  travel. 
That  this    young  Earl  was  sent  on 
Koc  lost  his  head.  [him. 
Lady  C.  Th  ere  was  no  proof  against 
Alice.    Nay,  Madam  ;  did  not  Gar- 
diner intercept  [wro  e, 
A  letter  which  the  Count  de  Noailles 
To  that   d6ad  traitor,  Wyatt,  with 
full  proof               [came  of  that? 
Of  Courtenay  s  treason  ?   What  be- 
Lady  C.    Some  say  that  Gardiner, 
out  of  love  for  him,  [lost 
Burnt  it.  and  some  relate  that  it  was 
When  Wyatt  sack'd  the  Chancellor's 

house  in  Soutliwark. 
Let  dead  things  rest. 

Alice.  Ay,  and  with  him  who  died 
Alone  in  Italy. 

L'l-dy  C.  Much  changed,  I  hear,  [on. 
Had  put  off  levity  and  put  graveness  i 


511 

The  foreign  courts  report  him  in  hi» 
manner  [siiield. 
Noble  as  his  young  person  and  old 
It  might  be  so -but  all  is  over  now  ; 
He  caught  a  chill  in  the  lagoons  of 
And  died  in  Padua.  [Venice, 
Mary  {looking  up  suddenly).  Died 

in  the  true  faith? 
Lady  C.    Ay,  Madam,  happily. 
Mcut  y.         Happier  he  than  I. 
Lady  M.     It  seems  her  Highness 
hath  awaken'd.    Think  you 
That  I  might  dare  to  tell  her  that  the 
Count —  [evermore, 
Mary.    I  will  see  no  man  hence  for- 
Saving  my  confessor  and  my  cousin 
Pole.  [my  dear  lady. 

Lady  M.    It  is  the  Count  de  Feria, 
Mary.    What  Count? 
Lady  M.    The  Count  de  Feria,  from 
his  Majesty 
King  Philip.  [my  hair! 

Mary.  Philip  !  quick  !  loop  up 
Throw  cushions  on  that  seat,  and 

make  it  throne-like. 
Arrange    my    dress — the  gorgeous 
Indian  shawl  .  [days! — 

That  \  hilip  brought  rae  in  our  happy 
That  covers  all.    So — am  I  somewhat 
Queenlike,  [earth? 
Bride  of  the  mightiest  sovereign  upon 
Lady  C.    Ay,  so  your  Grace  would 

bide  a  moment  yet. 
Mary.    No,  no,  he  brings  a  letter.  I 
may  die  [once. 
Before  I  read  it.    Let  me  see  him  at 
Enter  Count  de  Feria  (kneels). 
Fer.    I  trust  your  Grace  is  well. 

{aside)    How  her  hand  burns. 
Mary.    I  am  not  well,  but  it  will 
better  me,  [you  bring. 

Sir  Co-uiit.  to  read  the  letter  which 
Fer.    Madam,  I  bring  no  letter. 
Mary.    How  !  no  letter? 
Fer.    His  Highness  is  so  vex'd  with 

strange  affairs — 
Mary.    That   h  s  own   wife  is  no 
affair  of  his.       [his  veriest  love, 
Fer.    Nay,  Madam,  nay!  he  s  nds 
And  says  he  will  come  quickly. 

Mary.  ±jiji\i  he,  indeed  ? 

You,  sir,  do  you  remember  what  you 
said 

When  last  you  came  to  En^jland  ? 
Fer.  Madam,  I  brougnt 


QUEEN  MARY. 


52 

My  King's  congratulations;   't  was 
hoped  [happy  state 

Your  Highness  was  once  more  in 
To  give  him  an  heir  male. 

Mary.  Sir,  you  said  more ; 

You  said  he  would  come  quickly. 

I  had  horses  [and  night ; 

On  all  the   road  from  Dover,  day 
On  all  the  road  from  Harwich,  night 
and  day  ;  [band  came  not  ; 

But  the  child  came  not,  and  the  hus- 

And  yet  he  will  come  quickly  

Thou  hast  learnt  [need 
Thy  lesson,  and  I  mine.  There  is  no 
For  Philip  so  to  shame  himself  again. 
Return,  [no  more, 

And  tell  him  that  I  know  he  comes 
Tell  him  at  last  I  know  his  love  is 
dead,  [forth  death — 

And  that   I  am  in  state  to  bring 
Thou  art  commissioned  to  Elizabeth, 
And  not  to  me  ! 
Fer .  Mere  compliments  and 

wishes.  [your  Grace? 

But  shall  I  take  some  message  from 
Mary.    Tell  her  to  come  and  close 
my  dying  eyes,  [my  grave. 

And  wear  my  crown,  and  dance  upon 
Fer.    Then  I  may  say  your  Grace 
will  see  your  sister? 
Your  Grace  is  too  low-spirited.  Air 
and  sunshine.  [warm  Spain. 

I  would  we  had  you.  Madam,  in  our 
You  droop  in  your  dim  London. 

Mary.  Have  him  away. 

I  sicken  of  his  readiness. 

Lady  C.  My  Lord  Count, 

Her  Highness  is  too  ill  for  colloquy. 
Fer.    (kneels  and  kisses  her  hand). 
I  wish  her  Highness  better. (Aside) 
How  her  hand  burns.  [Exeunt. 
Scene  HI — A  House  near  London. 
Elizabeth,  Steward  of  the  House- 
hold, Attendants. 
Eliz.  There's  half  an  angel  wrong'd 
in  your  ac  count ;  [it 
Methinks  I  am  all  angel,  that  I  bear 
Without  more  ruffling.     Cast  it  o'er 
again. 

Steward.    I  were  whole  devil  if  I 

wrong'd  you.  Madam. 

[Exit  Steward. 
At.    The  Count  de  Feria,  from  the 

King  of  Spain.  [need not  go: 


Act  5 

Eliz.    Ah! — let  him  enter.  Nay,  you 
[To  her  Ladies. 
Remain  within   the  chamber,  but 
apart.         [Welcome  to  England ! 
We'll  have    no   private  conference. 
Enter  Feria. 
Fer,    Fair  isLmd  star.  [Count? 
Eliz.  I  shine !  what  else.  Sir 

Fer.    As  far  as  France,  and  into 
Philip's  heart.  [served, 
My  King  would  know  if  you  be  fairly 
And  lodged,  and  treated.  [sir. 

Eliz.  You  see  the  lodging, 

I  am  well-served,  and  am  in  every 
thing  [Queen. 
Most  loyal  and  most  grateful  to  the 
Fer.    You  should  be  grate  ulto  my 
master,  too,  [you  owe 

He  spoke  of  this;    and  unto  him 
That  Mary  hath  acknowledged  you 
her  heir.  [to  the  people, 

Eliz.  No,  not  to  her  or  him  ;  but 
Who  know  my  right,  and  love  me  as 
The  people!  whom  God  aid!     11  love 
Fer.  You  will  be  Queen, 

And  were  I  Philip — 
Eliz.    Wherefore  pause  you — what? 
Fer.    Nay,  but  I  speak  from  mine 
own  self,  not  him: 
Your  royal  sister  cannot  last;  your 
hand  [cateone! 
Will  be  much  coveted !    What  a  deli- 
Our  Spanish  ladies  have  none  such — 
and  there,         [gossamer  gold — 
Were  you  in  Spain,  this  fine  fair 
Like  sun-gilt  breathings  on  a  frosty 
dawn — 

That  hovers  round  your  shoulder — 

Eliz.  Is  it  so  fine  ? 

Troth,  some  have  said  so. 
Fer.  — Would  be  deemed  a  miracle. 
Eliz.     Your  Philip  hath  gold  hair 
and  golden  beard,        [like  mine. 
There  must  be  ladies  many  with  hair 
Fer.    Some  few  of  Gothic  blood 
have  golden  hair. 
But  none  like  yours. 
Eliz.      I  am  happy  you  approve  it. 
Fer.    But  as  to  Philip  and  your 
Grace — consider. —    [with  Spain, 
If  such  a  one  as  you  should  match 
What  hinders  but  that  Spain  and 

England  join'd. 
Should  make  the  mightiest  empire 
earth  has  known. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Scene  4 

Spain  would  be  England  on  her  seas, 

and  England 
Mistress  of  the  Indies. 

Eliz.    It  may  chance,  that  England 
Will  be  mistress  of  the  Indies  yet, 
Without  the  help  of  Spain. 

Fer.  Impossible; 
Except  you  put  Spain  down. 
Wide  of  the  mark  ev'n  for  a  madman's 
dream.      [men.    Count  de  Feria, 
Eliz.    Perhaps;  but  we  have  sea- 
I  take  it  that  the  King  hath  spoken 
to  you;  [match? 
But  is  Don  Carlos  such  a  goodly 
Fer.    Don  Carlos,  madam,  is  but 

twelve  years  old. 
Eliz.    Ay,  tell  the  King  that  I  will 
muse  upon  it:         [keep  him  so; 
He  is  my  good  friend,  and  I  would 
But — he  would  have  me  Catholic  of 
Rome, 

And  that  I  scarce  can  be;  and,  sir, 
till  now  [marriages, 
My  sister's  marriage,  and  my  father's 
Make  me  full  fain  to  live  and  die  a 
maid.  [King. 
But  I  am  much  beholden  to  your 
Have  you  aught  else  to  tell  me? 

Fer.  Nothing,  Madam, 

Save  that  methought  I  gather'd  from 
the  Queen  [fore  she — died. 

That  she  would  see  your  Grace  be- 
Eliz.    God's  death!  and  wherefore 
spake  you  not  before? 
Wft  dally  with  our  lazy  moments  here. 
And  hers    are    number" d.  Horses 
there,  without!  [master. 
I  am  much  beholden  to  the  King,  your 
Why  did  you  keep  me  prating.  Hors- 
es, there!        [Exit  E\iza.heth,  etc. 
Fer.    So  from  a  clear  sky  falls  the 
thunderbolt!  [Philip, 
D  m  Carlos?    Madam,  if  you  marry 
Then  I  and  he  will  snaflfte  your  "God's 
death,"  [you  tame; 

And  break  your  paces  in,  and  make 
God's  death,  forsooth— you  do  not 
know  King  Philip.  [Exit. 
Scene  TV. —London.    Before  the  Pal- 
ace. 

A  light  burning  within.     Voices  of 
the  night  passing. 
1.    Is  not  yon  light  in  the  Queen's 
chamber? 

33 


m 

2.  Ay, 

They  say  she's  dying. 

1.  So  is  Cardinal  Pole. 
May  the  great  angels  join  their  wings, 

and  make 
Down  for  their  heads  to  beaven ! 

2.  Amen.    Come  on. 

[Exeunt 

Two  Others. 

1.  There's  the  Queen's  light.  I 
hear  she  cannot  live. 

2.  God  curse  her  and  her  Legate! 
Gardiner  burns  [kind, 

Already:  but  to  pay  them  full  in 
The  hottest  hold  in  all  the  devil's 

den  [Guernsey, 
Were  but  a  sort  of  winter;  sir,  in 
I  watch'd  a  woman  burn  ;  and  in  her 

agony  [was  born^- 

The  mother  came  upon  her — a  child 
And,  sir,  they  hurl'd  it  back  into  the 

fire,  [babe 
That,  being  but  baptised  in  fire,  the 
Might  be  in  fire  forever.    Ah,  good 

ijcighbor,  [than  fire 

There  should  be  something  fierier 
To  yield  them  their  deserts. 

1.  Amen  to  all 

You  wish,  and  further, 

A  3d.  Voice.  Deserts  I  Amen  to  what? 
Whose  deserts?  Yours?  You  have 
a  gold  ring  on  your  finger,  and  soft 
raiment  about  your  body;  and  is  not 
the  woman  up  yonder  sleeping  after 
all  she  has  done,  in  peace  and  quiet- 
ness, on  a  soft  bed,  in  a  closed  room, 
with  light,  fire,  physic,  tendance; 
and  I  have  seen  the  true  men  of 
Christ  lying  famine-dead  by  scores, 
and  under  no  ceiling  but  the  cloud 
that  wept  on  them,  not  for  them. 
1.    Friend,  tho'  so  late,  it  is  not 

safe  to  preach.  [you? 
You  had  best  go  home.    What  are 

3.  What  am  I?  One  who  cries  con- 
tinually with  sweat  and  tears  to  the 
Lord  God  that  it  would  please  Him 
out  of  His  infinite  love  to  break  down 
all  kingship  and  queenship,  all  priest- 
hood and  prelacy;  to  cancel  and  abol- 
ish all  bonds  of  human  allegience,  all 
the  magistracy,  all  the  nobles,  and 
all  the  wealthy;  and  to  send  us  again, 
according  to  his  promise,  the  one 
King,  the  Christ,  and  all  things  in 


QUEEN  MARY. 


514 


QUEEN 


MARY. 


Actn 


common,  as  in  the  day  of  the  first 
church,  when  Christ  Jesus  was  King. 
1.   If  ever  I  heard  a  madman, — let's 

away!  [beyond  me. 

Why,  you  long-winded —  Sir,  you  go 
I  pride  myself  on  being  moderate. 
Goodnight!  Go  home.   Besides,  you 

curse  so  loud, 
The  watch  will  hear  you.     Get  you 

home  at  once.  [Exeunt. 
Scene  Y. —London.   A  Room  in  the 
Palace. 

A  Gallery  on  one  side.  The  moon- 
light streaming  through  a  range  of 
windows  on  the  wall  opposite. 
Mary,  Lady  Clarence,  Lady  Mag- 
dalen Dacres,  Alice.  Q,\ieen  pacing 
the  Gallery.  A  writing-table  in 
front.  Queen  comes  to  the  table  and 
writes  and  goes  again,  pacing  the 
Gallery. 

Lady  C.    Mine  eyes  are  dim:  what 
hath  she  written?  read,  [to  me.'' 
Alice.    "  I  am  dying,  Philip;  come 
Lady  M.     There — up   and  down, 

poor  lady,  up  and  down. 
Alice.  And  how  her  shadow  crosses 
one  by  one  [on  the  wall. 

The  moonlight  casements  pattern'd 
Following  her  like  her  sorrow.  She 

turns  again. 
[Queen  sits  and  tcrites.,  and  goes  again. 
Lady  C.    What  hath  she  written 
now  ?  [come,"  and  all  awry, 

Alice.    Nothing;  but  "come,  come, 
And  blotted  by  her  tears.    This  can- 
not last.  [Queen  7'eturns. 
Mary.    I  whistle  to  the  bird  has 
broken  cage. 
And  all  in  vain.  [Sitting  down. 
Calais  gone — Guisnes  gone,  too — and 
Philip  gone  ! 
Lady  C.  Dear  Madam,  Philip  is  but 
at  the  wars;  [again; 
I  cannot  doubt  but  that  he  comes 
And  he  is  with  you  in  a  measure  still. 
I  never  look'd  upon  so  fair  a  likeness 
As  your  great  King  in  armor  there, 
Upon  his  helmet.  [his  hand 
[Pointing  to  the  portrait  of  Philip 

on  the  wall. 
Mary.         Doth  he  not  look  noble  ? 
I  had  heard  of  him  in  battle  over 
seas, 


And  I  would  have  my  warrior  all  ia 
arms. 

He  said  it  was  not  courtly  to  stand 

helmeted  [cious  moment, 

Before  the  Queen.    He  had  his  gra- 
Altho'  you'll  not  believe  me.  How 
As  if  he  loved  me  yet!        [he  smilea 
Lady  C.  And  so  he  does. 

Mary.    He  never  loved  me — nay,  he 

could  not  love  me.  [France. 
It  was  his  father's  policy  against 
I  am  eleven  years  older  than  he. 
Poor  boy.  [  Weeps. 

Alice.    That  was  a  lusty  boy  of 

twenty-seven;  [Aside. 
Poor  enough  in  God's  grace! 

Mary.  — And  all  in  vain! 

The  Queen  of  Scots  is  married  to  the 

Dauphin,  [world  is  gone; 

And  Charles,  the  lord  of  this  low 
And  all  his  wars  and  wisdoms  past 

away ; 

And  in  a  moment  I  shall  follow  him. 
Lady  C.    Nay,  dearest  Lady,  see 

your  good  physician. 
Mary.    Drugs — but  he  knows  they 
cannot  help  me— says  [tnink— 
That  rest  is  all— tells  me  I  must  not 
That  I  must  rest— I  shall  rest  by  and 
by.  [when  he  springs 

Catch  the  wild  cat,  cage  him,  and 
And  maims  himself  against  the  bars, 
say  "  rest:"  [have  him  rest — 
Why,  you  must  kill  him  if  you  would 
Dead  or  alive  you  cannot  make  him 
happy.  [piire  a  life. 

Lady  C.   Your  Majesty  has  lived  so 
And  done  such  mighty  things  by 
Holy  Church,  [yet. 
I  trust  that  God  will  make  you  happy 
Mary.    What  is  the  strange  thing 
happiness?  Sit  down  here; 
Tell  me  thine  happiest  hour. 

Lady  C.  I  will,  if  that 

May  make  vour  Grace  forget  your- 
self a  little.  [our  field 
There  runs  a  shallow  brook  across 
For  twenty  miles,  where  the  black 
crow  flies  five,  [the  way 
And  doth  so  bound  and  babble  all 
As  if  itself  were  happy.  It  was  May- 
time,  [loved. 
And  I  was  walking  with  the  man  I 
I  loved  him,  but  I  thought  I  was  not 
loved. 


Scene  5 


QUEEN 


MARY. 


515 


And  both  were  silent,  lei  ting  the  wild 
brook 

Speak  for  us— till  he  ;5toop'd  and 

gather'd  one  [nots, 
From  out  a  bed  of  thick  forget-me- 
Look'd  hard  and  sweet  t.t  me,  and 

gave  it  me,  [it, 
I  took  it,  tho'  I  did  not  know  I  took 
And  put  it  in  my  bosom,  and  all  at 

once  [lips — 

I  felt  his  arms  about  me,  and  his 
Mary.    O  God  I  I  have  been  too 

slack,  too  slack; 
There  are  Hot  Gospellers  even  among 

our  guards  -  [but  burnt 

Nobles  we  dared  not  touch.  We  have 
The  heretic  priest,   workmen,  and 

women  and  children. 
Wet,    famine,    ague,  fever,  storm, 

wreck,  wrath,- - 
We  have  so  play'd  the  coward  ;  but 

by  God's  grace,  [up 
Well  follow  Philip's  leading,  and  set 
The  Holy   Office   here— garner  the 

wheat,  [able  fire ! 

And  burn  the  tares  with  unquench- 
Burn! —  [close 
Fie,  what  a  savor!  tell  the  cooks  to 
The  doors  of  all  the  offices  below. 
Latimer  !  [here — 

Sir,  we  are  private  with  our  women 
Ever  a  rough,  blunt,  and  uncourtly 

fellow—  [out ! 

Thou  light  a  torch  that  never  will  go 
Tis  out —mine  flames.     Women,  the 

Holy  Father  [cousin  Pole- 

Has  ta'en  the  legateship  from  our 
Was  t>iat  well  done?  and  poor  Pole 

pines  of  it,  [woman, 
i^s  I  do,  to  the  death.  I  am  but  a 
I  have  no  power. — Ah,  weak  and  meek 

old  man. 

Sevenfold  dishonored  even  in  the  sight 
Of  thine  own  secretaries — No,  no. 

No  pardon! —  [hand  still 

Why  that  was  false:  there  is  the  right 
Beckons  me  hence.  [for  treason. 
Sir,  you  were  burnt  for  heresy,  not 
Remember  that!  'twas  I  and  Bonner 

did  it. 

And  Pole;  we  are  three  to  one — 
Have  you  found  mercy  there. 

Grant  it  me  here :  and  see  he  smiles 
and  goes. 

Gentle  as  in  life. 


Alice.        Madam,  who  goes?  King 
Philip? 

Mary.    No,  Philip  comes  and  goes, 
but  never  goes. 
Women,  when  I  am  dead. 
Open  my  heart,  and  there  yon  will 
find  written  [his, — 

Two  names,  Philip  and  Calais;  opea 
So  that  he  have  one, —  [policy, — 
You  will  find  Philip  only,  policy, 
Ay,  worse  than  that— not  one  hour 
true  to  me!  [vice! 
Foul  maggots  crawling  in  a  fester'd 
Adulterous  to  the  very  heart  of  Hell. 
Hast  thou  a  knife  ?      [God's  mercy— 

Alice.  Ay,  Madam,  but  o' 

Mary.    Fool,  think'st  thou  I  would 
peril  mine  own  soul        [not,  girl. 
By  slaughter  of  the  body?    I  could 
Not  this  way — callous   with   a  con- 
stant strife, 
Unwoundable.    Thy  knife! 

Alice.  Take  heed,  take  heed! 

The  blade  is  keen  as  death. 

Mary.  This  Philip  shall  not 

Stare  in  upon  me  in  my  haggardness; 
Old,  miserable,  diseased,  [down. 
Incapable  of  children.     Come  thou 

[  Chits  out  the  picture  and  throtvs  it 
doum.  [killed  my  Philip. 

Lie  there.    (Wails.)   O  God,  I  have 

Alice.  No,  [out. 

Madam,  you  have  but  cut  the  canvas 
We  can  replace  it. 

Mary.         All  is  well  then  ;  rest— 
I  will  to  rest  ;  he  said,  I  must  have 
rest. 

[  Cries  of  "Elizabeth ' '  in  the  street. 
A  cry  !    What's  that  ?    Elizabeth  ? 

revolt?  [Wyaft? 
A    now    Northumberland,  another 
I'll  fight  it  on  the  threshold  of  the 
grave.  [comes  to  see  you. 

Lady  C.    Madam,  your  royal  sister 
Mary.    I  will  not  see  her. 
Who  knows  if  Boleyn's  daughter  be 
my  sister?  [Your  arm. 

I  will  see  none  except  the  priest. 

[To  Lady  Clarence 
O  Saint  of  Aragon,  with  that  sweet 
worn  smile  [me  hence. 

Among  thy  patient  wrinkles — help 
[Exeunt. 

The  Priest  passes.     Enter  Elizabeth 
and  Sir  William  Cecil, 


516 

Eliz,    Good  counsel  yours — 

No  one  in  waiting?  still, 
As  if  the  chamberlain  were  Death 

himself!  [the  way? 

The  room  she  sleeps  in — is  not  this 
No,  that  way  there  are  voices.    Am  I 

too  late !'  [the  way. 

Cecil  .  .  .  God  guide  me  lest  I  lose 
[Exit  Elizabeth. 
Cecil.     Many   points  weather'd, 

many  p  rilous  ones, 
At  last  a  harbor  opens;  but  therein 
Sunk  rocks— they  need  fine  steering 

— much  it  is  [mind — 

To  be  nor  mad,  nor  bigot — have  a 
Not  let  Priests'  talk,  or  dream  of 

worlds  to  be,  [touches 
Miscolor  things  about  her — sudden 
For  him,  or  him — sunk  rocks;  no  pas- 
sionate faith —  -  [mise; 
But — if  let  be— balance  and  compro- 
Brave,  wary,  same  to  the  heart  of  her 

—a  Tudor  [Boleyn,  too, 

School'd  by  the  shadow  of  death — a 
Glancing  across  the  Tudor— not  so 

well. 

Enter  Alice. 
How  is  the  good  Queen  now? 

Alice.  Away  from  Philip. 

Back  in  her  childhood — prattling  to 
her  mother  [Charle-, 
Of  her  betrothal  to  the  Emperor 
And  childlike-jealous  of  him  again — 
and  once  [his  book 

She  thank'd  her  father  sweetly  for 
Against  that  godless  German.  Ah, 
those  days  [world 
Were  happy.     It  was  never  merry 
In   England,  since  the  Bible  came 
among  us. 
Cecil.    And  who  says  that? 
Alice.     It  is  a  saying  among  the 
Catholics. 


Acth 

Cecil.    It  never  will  be  merry  world 
in  Engif.nd,  [and  poor. 

Till  all  men  have  their  Bible,  rich 
Alice.    The  Queen  is  dying,  or  you 
dare  not  say  it. 

Enter  Elizabeth. 
Eliz.  7-he  Queen  is  dead. 
Cecil.  Then  here  she  stands! 

my  homage. 
Eliz.    She  knew  me,  and  acknow- 
ledged me  her  heir, 
Pray'd  me  to  pay  her  debts,  and  keep 
the  Faith;  [away  in  peace. 

Then  claspt  the  cross,  and  pass'd 
I  left  her  lying  still  and  beautiful. 
More  beautitul  than  in  life.  Why 

should  you  vex  yourself, 
Poor  sister?   Sir,  I  swear  I  have  no 
heart  [less  fence. 

To  be  your  Queen.    To  reign  is  rest- 
Tierce,  quart,  and  trickery.  Peace 
is  with  the  dead.  [was  nipt: 

Her  life  was  winter,  for  her  spring 
And  she  loved  much:  pray  God  she 
be  forgiven. 
Cecil.    Peace  with  the  dead  who 
never  were  at  peace! 
Yet  she  loved  one  so  much  -I  needs 
must  say--  [left 
That  never  English  monarch  dying 
England  so  little. 

Eliz.  But  with  Cecil's  aid 

And  others,  if  our  person  be  secured 
From  traitor  stabs — we  will  make 

England  great. 
Enter  Paget,  and  other  Lords  of  the 
Council,  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall,  etc. 
Lords.     God   save  Elizabeth,  the 

Queen  of  England  I 
Bag.    God   save  the  Crown:  the 
Papacy  is  no  more.  [that? 
Paget  (aside.)   Are  we  so  sure  of 
Acclamation.  God  save  the  Queen! 


QUEEIf  MARY. 


Hakoli). 


SHOW-DAY  AT  BATTLE  ABBEY,  1876. 


A  GARDEN  here— May  breath  and  bloom 

of  spring — 
The  cuckoo  yonder  from  an  English  elm 
Crying  '  with  my  false  egg  I  overwhelm 
The  native  nest  :  '  and  fancy  hears  the 

ring  [sing, 
Of  harness,  and  tliat  deathful  arrow 
And.  Saxon  battleaxe  clang  on  Norman 

helm. 

Here  rose  the  dragon-banner  of  our 
realm : 


Here  fought,  here  fell,  our  Norman- 

slaJiderYl  king.  [blood  I 

O  Garden  blossoming  out  of  English 
O  strange  hate-healer  Time  !   We  stroll 

and  stare  [years  ago  ; 

Where  miijht  made  right  eight  hundred 
Might,  right  ?  ay  good,  so  all  things 

make  for  good — 
But  he  and  he,  if  soul  be  soul,  are  where 
Each  stands  full  face  with  all  he  did 

below. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


King  Edward  the  Confessor. 

Stigand,  created  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury by  the  Antipope  Benedict. 

Aldred,  Archbishop  of  York. 

The  Norman  Bishop  of  London. 

Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex, 
terivards  King  of  Eng- 
land, 

Tostig,  Earl  of  Northum- 
bria, 

Gurth,  Earlof^2i^t  Anglia, 
Leofwin,  Earl  of  Kent  and 

Essex, 
Wulfnoth, 

Count  William  of  Normandy. 
William  Rufus. 

William  Malet,  a  Norman  Noble* 


Sons  of 
Godwin. 


Edwin,  EarlofMevcmA  rj  of  AXf^^r 
Morcar,  Earl  of  North-  Setcif 

umbriaa/YerTostig,J  ^^^^^la. 
Gamel,  a  NortJiumbrian  Thane. 
Guy,  Coun  t  of  Pontliieu. 
Rolf,  a  Ponthieu  Fisherman. 
Hugh  Margot,  a  Norman  Monk. 
Osgod  and  Athelric,  Canons  from  Wal- 

tliam. 

The  C^ueen,  Edioard  the  Confessor's 
TT  ife.  Daughter  of  Godwin. 

Aldwyth,  Dahighter  of  Alfgar  and 
Widow  of  Griffyth,  /fi/K/ o/ Wales. 

Edith,  Ward  of  King  Edward. 

Courtiers,  Earls  and  Tliancs,  Men-at- 
Arms,  Canons  of  Waltham,  Fisher- 
men, &c. 


ACT  1. 

Scene  I .  — London.  The  King''s  Palace. 

{A  comet  seen  through  the  open  ivin- 

dow).    Aldwytli,  Gamel,  Courtiers 

talking  together. 
First  Courtier.   Lo  !  there  once  more 

—this  is  the  seventh  night !  [scourge 
Yon  grimly-glaring,  treble-brandished 
Of  England  ! 
Second  Courtier.   Horrible  ! 
1  Court.   Look  you,  there's  a  star 
That  dances  in  it  as  mad  with  agony ! 
Third  Courtier.   Ay,  like  a  spirit  in 

Hell  who  skips  and  flies 
To  right  and  left,  and  cannot  scape  the 

flame. 

*  .  .  .  qui  dam  parti  m 
Compater  Heraldi. 


I     2  Court.    Steam'd  upward  from  the 
I  undescendable 
Abysm. 

1  Court.   Or  floated  downward  from 
the  throne 
Of  God  Almighty. 

Aldwyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thiukest  thou  this  means  ? 
Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady  ! 

Aid.   Doth  this  affright  thee  ? 
Gamel.       Mightily,  my  dear  lady  ! 
Aid.   Stand  by  me  then,  and  look 
upon  my  face, 
Not  on  the  comet. 

Enter  Morcar. 
Brother  I  why  so  pale  ? 

Normnnnns  et  Anjjlus 
{fxuy  of  Amiens,  587.) 


Morcar.   It  glares  in  heaven,  it  flares 

upon  the  Thames. 
The  people  are  as  thick  as  bees  below, 
They  hum  like  bees, — they  cannot  speak 

— for  awe  ;  [strike 
Look  to  the  skies,  then  to  the  river. 
Their  hearts,  and  hold  their  babies  up 

to  it.  [too, 
1  think  that  they  W' ould  Molochize  them 
To  have  the  heavens  clear. 
Aid.  They  fright  not  me. 

Enter  Leofwin,  afier  him  Gurth. 

Ask  thou  Lord  Leofwin  what  he  thinks 
of  this  !  [lieve,  that  these 

M(>r.   Lord  Leofwan,  dost  thou  be- 

Three  rods  of  blood-red  fire  up  yonder 
mean  [Heaven  ? 

The  doom  of  England  and  the  w^  ath  of 
Bishop  of  London  {passing).  Did  ye 
not  cast  with  bestial  violence 

Our  holy  Norman  bishops  down  from  all 

Their  thrones  in  England  ?  I  alone  re- 
main. 

Why  should  not  Heaven  be  wroth  ? 
Leofwin.  With  us,  or  thee  ? 

Bp.  ofLond.    Did  ye  not  outlaw  your 
archbishop  Robert, 
Robert  of  Jumieges — well-nigh  murder 
him  too  ?  [Heaven  ? 

Is  there  no  reason  for  the  wrath  of 
Leaf.   Why  then  the  wrath  of  Heaven 
hath  three  tails,  [London. 
The  devil  only  one.    [Exit  Bishop  of 

Enter  Archbishop  Stigand. 

Ask  our  Archbishop. 
Stigand  should  know  the  purposes  of 
Heaven.  [face  of  heaven, 

Stigand.   Not  I.    I  cannot  read  the 
Perhaps  our  vines  will  <?r()W  the  better 
for  it.  [the  king's  face  on  his  coins. 
Leof.  {laughing).    He  can  but  read 
Stig.   Ay,  ay,  young  lord,  tJiere  tlic 
king's  face  is  power.  [fear, 
Gurth.   O  father  mock  not  at  a  public 
But  tell  us,  is  this  pendent  lieil  in  heaven 
A  harm  to  England  ? 

Siig.  Ask  it  of  King  Edward  ! 

And  he  may  tell  thee,  /  am  a  harm  to 
England. 

Old  uncanonical  Stigand— ask  of  me 
.Who. had  my  pallium  from  an  Anti- 
pope  ?  [world 
Not  he  the  man — for  in  our  windy 


What's  up  is  faith,  what's  down  is 
heresy.  [his  chair. 

Our  friends,  the  Normans,  holp  to  shake 
I  have  a  Norman  fever  on  me,  son. 
And  cannot  answer  sanely  .  .  .  What  it 
means  ? 

Ask  our  broad  Earl.     {Pointing  to  Har- 
old, tvho  enters. 
Harold  {seeing  Gamel).   Hail,  Gamel, 
son  of  Orm  1  [Gamel, 
Albeit  no  rolling  stone,  my  good  friend 
Thou  hast  rounded  since  we  met.  Thy 
life  at  home  [not 
Is  easier  than  mine  here.   Look  !  am  I 
Work-wan,  flesh-fallen  I 

Gamel.    Art  thou  sick,  good  Earl  ? 
Har.   Sick  as  an  autumn  swallow  for 
a  voyage,  [hound 
Sick  for  an  idle  week  of  hawk  and 
Beyond  the  seas— a  change  !  When 
camest  thou  hither  ? 
Gamel.   To-day,  good  Earl. 
Har.       Is  the  North  quiet,  Gamel  ? 
Gamel.    Naj'-,  there  be  murmurs,  for 
thy  brother  breaks  us 
With  over-taxing — quiet,  ay,  as  yet — 
Nothing  as  yet. 

Har.   Stand  by  him,  mine  old  friend, 
Thou  art  a  great  voice  in  Northumber- 
land I  [hear  thee. 
Advise  him  :  speak  him  sweetly,  he  will 
He  is  passionate  but  honest.  Stand  thou 
by  him  I                      [w^eird  sign 
More  talk  of  this  to-morrow,  if  yon 
Not  blast  us  in  our  dreams. — Well, 
father  Stigand — 
\_To  Stigand,  tvho  advances  to  him. 
Stigand  {pointing  to  the  comet).  War 
there,  my  son  ?  is  that  the  doom  of 
England  ? 
Har.   Why  not  the  doom  of  all  the 
world  as  well  ?  [land. 
For  all  the  world  sees  it  as  well  as  Eng- 
These  meteors  came  and  went  before 
our  day,  [more 
Not  luirniing  any  :  it  threatens  us  no 
Than  French  or  Norman.    W ar  ?  the 
worst  that  follows  [mon  rut 
Things  that  seem  jerk'd  out  of  the  com- 
Of  Nature  is  the  hot  religious  fool. 
Who,  seeing  war  in  heaven,  for  heaven's 
credit 

Makes  it  on  earth  :  but  look  where  Ed- 
ward draws 
A  faint  foot  hither,  leaning  upon  Tostig. 


HAROLD. 


Scene  1 


HABOLD. 


51  £ 


He  hath  learnt  to  love  our  Tosti^  much 
of  late.  [tiger  m  him, 

Leof.   And  he  hath  learnt,  despite  the 
To  sleek  and  supple  himself  to  the 
king's  hand.  [cures  the  evLl 

Chirth.   I  trust  the  kingly  touch  that 
3[ay  serve  to  charm  the  tiger  out  of  him. 
Leof.   He  hath  as  much  of  cat  as  tiger 
in  him.  [man. 
Our  Tostig  loves  the  hand  and  not  the 
Har.   Nay  !   Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Enter  King,  Queen  and  Tostig. 
Edw.  In  heaven  signs  ! 

Signs  upon  earth  I  signs  everywhere  ! 

your  Priests 
Gross,  worldly,  simoniacal,  unlearn'd  ! 
They  scarce  can  read  their  Psalter  ;  and 

your  churches  [manland 
Uncouth,  unhnndsome,  while  in  Nor- 
God  speaks  thro'  abler  voices,  as  He 

dwells  [being 
In  statelier  shrines.  I  say  not  this*,  as 
Half  Norman-blooded,  nor  as  some  have 

held. 

Because  I  love  the  Norman  better — no, 
But  dreading  God's  re  venire  upon  this 

realm  [it 
For  narrowness  and  coldness  :  and  I  say 
For  the  last  time  perchance,  before  I  go 
To  find  the  sweet  refreshment  of  the 

Saints. 

I  have  lived  a  life  of  utter  purity  : 

I  have  builded  the  great  church  of  Holy 

Peter :  [glory— 
I  have  wrought  miracles — to  God  the 
And   miracles  will   in  my   name  be 

wrought  [go  — 

Hereafter.— I  have  fought  the  fight  and 
1  ^^ee  the  flashing  of  the  gatts  of  "pearl— 
And  it  is  well  with  me,  tho'  some  of  you 
Have  scorn'd  me— ay— but  after  I  am 

gone  [vision ; 

Woe,  woe  to  England !  I  have  had  a 
The  seven  sleepers  in  the  cave  at  Ephe- 

sus 

Have  turn'd  from  right  to  left. 

Har.  My  most  dear  Master, 

What  matters  ?  let  them  turn  from  left 

to  right 
And  sleep  again. 

Tosiig.     Too  hardy  with  thy  king  I 
A  life  of  praj^er  and  fasting  well  may  see 
Deeper  into  the  mysteries  of  heaven 
Than  thou,  good  broti.*  r . 


Aid.  (aside).       Sees  he  into  thine. 
That  thou  wouldst  have  his  promise  for 
the  crown  ?  [art  too  hard, 

Edw.   Tostig  says  true  ;  my  son,  thou 
Not  stagger'd  by  this  ominous  earth  and 
heaven :  [same  loom, 

But  heaven  and  earth  are  threads  of  the 
Play  into  one  another,  and  weave  the 
web 

That  may  confound  thee  yet. 

Har.  Nay,  I  trust  not, 

For  I  have  served  thee  long  and  honestly. 
Edw.   I  know  it,  son  ;  I  am  not  thank- 
less :  tliou  [me 
Hast  broken  all  my  foes,  lightened  for 
The  \veight  of  this  poor  crown,  and  left 
me  tmie  [one. 
And  peace  for  prayer  to  train  a  better 
Twelve  years  of  service  1  En<^land  loves 

thee  for  it. 
Thou  art  the  man  to  rule  her  1 
Aid.  {aside.)  So,  not  Tostig  \ 

Har.   And  after  those  twelve  years  a 
boon,  my  king. 
Respite,  a  holiday  ;  thyself  wast  wont 
To  love  the  chase  :  thy  leave  to  set  my 
feet  [the  seas  ! 

On  board,  and  hunt  and  hawk  beyond 
Edw.   What,  with  this  flaming  horror 

overhead  ? 
Har.   Well,  when  it  passes  then. 
Edw.  Ay  if  it  pass. 

Go  not  to  Normandy— go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy, [to  Normandy  ? 
Har.   And  wherefore  not,  my  king, 
Is  not  my  brother  Wulfnoth  hostage 
there 

For  my  dead  father's  loyalty  to  thee  ? 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  hence  and  bring  him 
home,  [messenger. 
Edw.   Not  thee,  my  son  ;  some  other 
Har.   And  why  not  me,  my  lord,  to 
Normandy  ?  [and  mine  ? 

Is  not  the  Norman  Count  thy  friend 
Edw.    I  pray  thee,  do  not  go  to  Nor- 
mandy. [Normans  out 
Har.   Because  my  father  drove  the 
Of  England  ?— That  was  many  a  sum- 
mer gone —  [thee. 
Forgotten  and  forgiven  by  them  and 
Ed IV.   Harold,  I  will  not  yield  thee 
leave  to  *^o.            [hawk  and  hunt 
Har.    Why  then  to  Flanders.   I  will 
In  Flanders.  [fields 
EdiV.   Be  there  not  fair  v  Dods  and 


520 

In  England  ?   Wilful,  wilful.   Go— the 

Saints 

Pilot  and  prosper  all  thy  wandering  out 
And  homeward.    Tostig,  I  am  faint 
again. 

Son  Harold,  I  will  in  and  pray  for  thee. 
[Exit,  leaning  on  Tostig,  and  follow- 
ed by  Stigand,  Morcar,  and  Cour- 
tiers. 

ffar.   What  lies  upon  tbe  mind  of 
our  good  king  [mandy  ? 

That  he  should  harp  this  way  on  Nor- 
Queen.   Brother,  the  king  is  wiser 
than  he  seems  ;  [king. 
And  Tostig  knows  it ;  Tostig  loves  the 
Har.   And  love  should  know  ;  and— 
be  the  king  so  wise, —  [seems. 
Then  Tostig  too  were  wiser  than  he 
I  love  the  nian  but  not  his  phantasies. 

Re-enter  Tostig. 
Well,  brother,  [iimbria  ? 

When  didst  thou  hear  from  thy  North- 
Tostig.   When  did  I  hear  aught  but 
this  '  When '  from  thee  ?    [umbria  : 
Leave  me  alone,  brother,  with  my  North- 
She  is  my  mistress,  let  me  look  to  her  ! 
The  King  hath  made  me  Earl ;  make  me 
not  fool  !  [Earl  ! 

Nor  make  the  King  a  fool,  who  made  me 
Har.   No,  Tostig— lest  I  make  myself 
a  fool  [make  thee  Earl. 

Who  made  the  King  who  made  thee, 
Tostig.   Why  chafe  me  then  ?  Thou 

knovvest  I  soon  go  wild. 
Gurtli.   Come,  co'me  !  as  yet  thou  art 
not  gone  so  wild  [of  us. 

But  thou  canst  hear  the  best  and  wisest 
Har.    So  says  old  Garth,  not  I :  yet 
hear  !  thine  earldom,  [crown 
Tostig,  hath  been  a  kingdom.  Their  old 
Is  yet  a  force  among  them,  a  sun  set 
But  leaving  light  enough  for  Alfgar's 
house  [ghastly  glare 

To  strike  thee  down  by  —  nay,  this 
May  heat  their  fancies. 

Tostig.      My  most  worthy  brother, 
That  art  the  quietest  man  in  all  the 
world—  [war — 

Ay,  ay  and  wise  in  peace  and  great  in 
Pray  God  the  people  choose  thee  for 
their  king  I  [win 
But  all  the  powers  of  the  house  of  God- 
Are  not  enframed  in  thee. 
Har.  Thunk  the  Saints,  no  I 


Act  1 

But  thou  hast  drain'd  them  shallow  by 
thy  tolls, 

And  thou  art  ever  here  about  the  King : 
Thine  absence  well  may  seem  a  want  of 
care.  [Godwin 
Cling  to  their  love  ;  for,  now  the  sons  of 
Sit  topmost  in  the  field  of  England,  envy, 
Like  rhe  rough  bear  beneath  the  tree, 

good  brother. 
Waits  till  the  man  let  go. 

Tostig.  Good  counsel  truly  ! 

1  heard  from  my  North  umbria  yester- 
day. [Northumbria  ?  Well  ? 
Har.   How  goes  it  then  with  thy 
Tostig.   And  wouldst  thou  that  it 

went  aught  else  than  well  ? 
Har.   I  would  it  went  as  well  as  with 
mine  earldom, 
Leofwin's  and  Gurth's. 

Tostig.         Ye  govern  milder  men. 
Gurth.    We  have  made  them  milder 

bj""  just  government. 
Tostig.    Ay,  ever  give  yourselves  your 
own  good  word.  [if  giver 

Leof.  An  honest  gift  by  al  1  the  Saints, 
And  taker  be  but  honest !  but  they  |3ribe 
Each  other,  and  so  often,  an  honest 

world 
Will  not  believe  them. 

Har.  I  may  tell  thee,  Tostig, 

I  heard  from  thy  Northumberland  to 
daj\  [my  nakedness 

Tostig.  From  spies  of  thine  to  spy 
In  my  poor  North  I 

Har.      Tliere  is  a  movement  there, 
A  blind  one — nothing  yet. 

Tostig.  Crush  it  at  once 

With  all  the  power  I  have  !— I  must— I 
will  ! —  [dom  there. 

Crush  it  half-born  I  Fool  still  ?  or  wis- 
My  wise  head-3haking  Harold? 

Har.  Make  not  thou 

The  nothing  something.  Wisdom  when 
in  power  [but  smile 

And  wisest,  should  not  frown  as  Power, 
As  kindness,  watching  all,  till  the  true 
must  [when  to  strike- 

Shall  make  her  strike  as  Power :  but 
O  To6ti  LT,  O  dear  brother— If  they  prance, 
licin  in,  not  lash  them,  lest  they  rear 
and  run 

And  break  both  neck  and  axle. 

Tostig.  Good  again  ! 

Good  counsel  tho'  scarce  needed.  Pour 
not  water 


HAROLD. 


j3cene  2 

In  the  full  vessel  running  out  at  top 
To  swamp  the  house. 

Leo/.         Nor  thou  be  a  wild  thing 
Out  of  the  waste,  to  turn  and  bite  the 
hand 

Would  help  thee  from  the  trap. 
Tostig.  Thou  playest  in  tune. 

Leo/.   To  the  deaf  adder  thee,  that 
*     wilt  not  dance 
However  wisely  charm'd. 

Tostig.  No  more,  no  more  ! 

Gurth.   I  likewise  cry  'no  more.' 
Unwholesome  talk    [hast  a  tongue  ! 
For  Godwin's  house  !    Leofwin,  thou 
Tostig,  thou  lookst  as  thou  would' st 
spring  upon  him.  [come, 
St.  Olaf,  not  while  I  am  by  !  Come, 
Join  hands,  let  brethren  dwell  in  unity  ; 
Let  kith  and  kin  stand  close  as  our 
shield-wall,  [a  tongue, 

T\Tio  breaks  us  then  ?  I  say,  thou  hast 
And  Tostig  is  not  stout  enough  to  bear 
Vex  him  not,  Leofwin.  [it. 

Tostig.  No,  I  am  not  vext, — 

Altho'  ye  seek  to  vex  me,  one  and  all. 
I  have  to  make  report  of  my  good  earl- 
dom [you— 
To  the  good  king  who  gave  it — not  to 
Not  any  of  you.— I  am  not  vext  at  all. 
Har,   The  king  ?  the  king  is  ever  at 
his  prayers ; 
In  all  that  handles  matter  of  the  state 
I  am  the  king. 

Tostig.      That  shalt  thou  never  be 
If  I  can  thwart  thee. 
Har.  Brother,  brother  ! 

Tostig.  Away  ! 

[Exit  Tostig. 
Queen.    Spite  of  this  grisly  star  ye 
Poor  Tostig.  [three  must  gall 

Leof.     Tostig,  sister,  galls  himself. 
He  cannot  smell  a  rose  but  pricks  his 
nose  [rose. 
Against  the  thorn,  and  rails  against  the 
Queen.    1  am  the  only  rose  of  all  the 
stock  [him,  so 

That  never  thorn 'd  him ;  Edward  loves 
Ye  hate  him.  Harold  always  hated  him. 
Why — how  they  fought  when  boys — and. 

Holy  Mary ! 
How  Harold  used  to  beat  him  ! 

Har.  Why,  boys  will  fight. 

Leofwin  would  often  fight  me,  and  I  beat 
him.  [much  ado 

Even  old  Gurth  would  fight.   I  had 


521 

To  hold  mine  own  against  old  Gurth. 

Old  Gurth,  [cause;  but  Tostig— - 
We  fought  like  great  states  for  grave 
On  a  sudden— at  a  something— for  a 

nothing —  [we  fought 

The  boy  would  fist  me  hard,  and  when 
I  conquer'd,  and  he  loved  me  none  the 

less,  [tell  him 

Till  thou  wouldst  get  him  all  apart,  and 
That  where  he  was  but  worsted,  he  was 

wrong'd.  [him  too  ; 

Ah  !  thou  hast  taught  the  king  to  spoil 
Now  the  spoilt  child  sways  both.  Take 

heed,  take  heed  ; 
Thou  art  the  Queen ;  ye  are  boy  and  girl 

no  more  : 
Side  not  with  Tostig  in  any  violence. 
Lest  thou  be  sideways  guilty  of  the  vio- 
lence. 

Queen.   Come  fall  not  foul  on  me.  I 

leave  thee,  brother. 
Har.   Nay,  my  good  sister — 

[Exeunt  Queen,  Harold,  Gurth  and 

Leofwin. 

Aid.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means  ? 

[Pointing  to  the  comet. 

Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady. 

War,  waste,  plague,  famine,  all  malig- 
nities, [his  earldom. 

Aid.   It  means  the  fall  of  Tostig  from 

Gamel.   That  were  too  small  a  matter 
for  a  comet  !         [house  of  Alfgar. 

Aid.   It  means  the  lifting  of  the 

Gamel.   Too  small !  a  comet  would 
not  show  for  that !        [compass  it. 

Aid.    Not  small  for  thee  if  thou  canst 

Gamel.   Thy  love  ?  [man  ; 

Aid.   As  much  as  I  can  give  thee. 
This  Tostig  is,  or  like  to  be,  a  tyrant ; 
Stir  up  thy  people  :  oust  him  ! 

Gamel.  And  thy  love  ? 

Aid.   As  much  as  thou  canst  bear. 

Gamel.  I  can  bear  all. 

And  not  be  giddy. 

Aid.       No  more  now  :  to-morrow. 

Scene  11. — In  the  Garden.    The  King's 
House  near  London.  Sunset. 
Edith.    Mad  for  thy  mate,  passionate 
nightingale  .  .  .  [ment ; 

I  love  tliee  for  it — ay,  but  stay  a  mo- 

He  can  but  stay  a  moment :  he  is  going. 

I  fain  would  hear  him  coming  ! .  .  .  near 
me  .  .  .  near, 


HAH  OLD. 


51>2 

Bomewhere~To  draw  him  nearer  with 
Like  thine  to  thine.  [a  charm 

(Singing.) 
hove  is  come  with  a  song  and  a  smile., 
Welcome  Love  ivith  a  smile  and  song : 
Love  can  stay  but  a  little  while. 
Why  cannot  he  stayf    They  call  him 
away : 

Ye  do  him  wrong ^  ye  do  him  wrong  ; 
Love  will  stay  for  a  whole  life  long. 

Enter  Harold. 
Har.   The  nightingales  at  Havering- 
in-the-bow/er  [ward's  prayers 

Sang  out  their  loves  so  loud,  that  Ed- 
Were  deafen'd,  and  he  prayed  them 
dumb,  and  thus  [gale  ! 

I  dumb  thee  too,  my  wingless  nightin- 
{^Kissing  her. 

Edith.   Thou  art  my  music  !  Would 

their  wings  were  mine  [go  ? 

To  follow  thee  to  Flanders  !   Must  ihou 
Har.   Not  muj^t,  but  will.   It  is  but 

lor  one  moon.  [ward's  hall 

Edith.  Leaving  so  many  foes  in  Ed- 
To  league  against  tliy  weal.   The  Lady 

Aldwyth  [on  thee, 

Was  here  to-day,  and  when  she  touch'd 
She  stammer'd  in  her  hate  ;   I  am  sure 

she  hates  thee. 
Pants  for  thy  blood. 

I  tar.  Well,  I  have  given  her  cause — 
I  fear  no  woman. 

Edith.  Hate  not  one  who  felt 

Some  pity  for  thy  hater  !    I  am  sure 
Her  morning  wanted  sunlight,  she  so 

praised  [pale— 
The  convent  and  lone  life — witnin  the 
Beyond  the  passion.    Nay — she  held 

with  Edwai  d,  [Edward, 
At  least  methought  she  held  with  holy 
That  marriage  was  half  sin. 

Har.  A  lesson  worth 

Finger  and  tliumb — thus  {snajjs  his  Jin- 

gers).  And  my  answer  to  it- 
See  here — an  interwoven  II  and  E  ! 
Take  thou  this  ring  ;  1  will  demand  his 

ward  [would  she  ? 

From  Edward  when  I  come  ag  in.  Ay, 
She  to  shut  up  my  blossom  in  the  dark  ! 
Tiiou  art  my  nun,  thy  cloister  in  mine 

arms. 

Edith  (taking  the  7'ing).    Yea,  but 
Earl  Tostig— 


Actl 

Har.  That's  a  truer  fear  ! 

For  if  the  North  take  fire,  I  should  be 
back ; 

I  shall  be,  soon  enough. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  last  night 

An  evil  dream  that  ever  came  and  went — 
Har.   A  gnat  that  vext  thy  pillow  !: 
Had  I  been  by  [what  was  it  ? 

I  would  have  spoiPd  his  horn.   My  gh-1, 
Edith.   Oh !  that  thou  wert  not  going  ! 
For  so  methought  it  was  our  marriage- 
morn,  [man 
And  while  we  stood  together,  a  dead 
Rose  from  behind  the  altar,  tore  away 
My  marriage  ring,  and  rent  my  bridal 
veil ;  [all  filPd 

And  then  I  turn'd,  and  saw  the  church 
With  dead  men   upright  from  their 
graves,  and  all  [thee. 
The  dead  men  made  at  thee  to  murder 
But  thou  didst  back  thyself  against  a 
pillar,  [axe— 
And  strike  among  them  with  thy  battle- 
There,  what  a  dream ! 
Har.    Well,  well— a  dream— no  more  ! 
Edith.   Did  not  Heaven  speak  to  men 
in  dreams  of  old  ?  [what,  my  child  ; 
Har.   Ay— well— of  old.    I  tell  thee 
Thou  hast  misread  this  merry  dream  of 
thine. 

Taken  the  rifted  pillars  of  the  wood 
For  smooth  stone  columns  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, 

The  shadows  of  a  hundred  fat  dead  deer 
For  dead  men's  ghosts.    True,  that  the 
battle-axe  [the  bow.— 

Was  out  of  place  ;  it  should  have  been 
Come,  thou  shalt  dream  no  more  such 
dreams;  I  swear  it,    [phires— these 
By  nnne  own  eyes— and  these  two  sap- 
Twin  rubies,  that  are  amulets  against  all 
The  kisses  of  all  kind  of  womankind 
In  Fhuiders,  till  the  sea  shall  roll  me 
To  tumble  at  thy  feet.  [back 
Edith.       That  would  but  shame  me, 
Rat  Iter  than  make  me  vain.    The  sea 
may  roll  [ing  rock 

Sand,  shingle,  shore-weed,  not  the  liv- 
Whicli  guards  the  land. 

Har.  Except  it  be  a  soft  one, 

And  imdcreatiMi  to  the  fall.   Mine  amu- 
let .  .  .  [shut  in 
This   last  ,  .  .  iipem  thine  eyelids,  to 
A  happier  dream.     Sleep,  sleep,  and 
thou  shalt  see 


HAROLD. 


HAROLD.  523 


Scene  2 

My  grayhounds  flsetiiig  like  a  beam  of 
light, 

And  hear  my  peregrine  and  her  bells  in 
heaven  ;  [heaven's  ; 

And  otlier  bells  on  earth,  which  yet  are 
Guess  what  they  be. 

Edith.   He  cannot  guess  who  knows. 
Farewell,  my  king. 
Har.     Not  yet,  but  then— my  queen. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Aldwyth  from  the  thicket. 
Aid.   The  kiss  that  charms  thine  eye- 
lids into  sleep,         [could  love  him 
Will  hold  mine  waking.   Hate  him  ?  I 
More,  tenfold,  than  this  fearful  child  can 
do; 

Griffyth  I  hated  :  why  not  hate  the  foe 
Of  England  ?   Griffyth  when  I  saw  him 

flee,  [the  blood 

Chased  deer-like  up  his  mountains,  all 
That  should  have  only  pulsed  for  Grif- 
fyth, beat  [love  him. 
For  his  pursuer.  I  love  him  or  think  I 
If  he  were  King  of  England,  I  his  queen, 
I  might  be  sure  of  it.   Nay,  I  do  love 

him.—  [the  king 

She  must  be  cloistered  somehow,  lest 
Should  yield  his  ward  to  Harold's  will. 

What  harm  ?  [love.— 
She  hath  but  blood  enough  to  live,  not 
When  Harold  goes  and  Tostig,  shall  I 

play  [upon  him  ? 

The  craftier  Tostig  with  him  ?  fawn 
Chime  in  with  all  ?   '  O  thou  more  saint 

than  king  ! '  [relics  ! ' 

And  til  at  were  true  enough.  '  O  blessed 
'  O  Holy  Peter  ! '  If  he  found  me  thus, 
Harold  might  hate  me  ;  he  is  broad  and 

honest,  [Aldwyth  .  . . 

Breathing  an  easy  gladness  .  .  .  not  like 
For  which  I  strangely  love  him.  Should 

not  England  [part 
Love  Aldwyth,  if  she  stay  the  feuds  that 
The  sons  of  Godwin  from  the  sons  of 

Alfgar  [Aldwyth! 
By  such  a  marrying  ?  Courage,  noble 
Let  all  thy  people  bless  thee  ! 

Our  wild  Tostig, 
Edward  hath  made  him  Earl :  he  would 

be  king  :—  [the  bone.— 

The  dog  that  snapt  the  shadow,  dropt 
I  trust  he  may  do  well,  this  Gamel, 

whom 

I  play  upon,  that,  he  may  i)lay  the  note  | 


Whereat  the  dog  shall  howl  and  run, 
and  Harold  [him, 
Hear  the  kind's  music,  all  alone  with 
Pronounced  his  heir  of  England. 
I  see  the  goal  and  half  the  way  to  it. — 
Peace-lover  is  our  Harold  for  the  sake 
Of  England's  wholeness — so — to  shake 
the  North  [division-- 
With  earthquake  and  disruption — some 
Then  fling  mine  own  fair  person  in  the 
gap 

A  sacrifice  to  Harold,  a  peace-offering, 
A  scape-goat  marriage— all  the  sins  of 
both  [life 
The  houses  on  mine  head— then  a  fair 
And  bless  the  Queen  of  England. 
Morcar  {coming  from  the  thicket). 

Art  thou  assured 
By  this,  that  Harold  loves  but  Edith  ? 

Aid.  Morcar  ! 

Why  creepst  thou  like  a  timorous  beast 

of  prey 
Out  of  the  bush  by  night  ? 
J/or.  I  follow'd  thee. 

Aid.   Follow  my  lead,  and  I  will  make 

thee  earl. 
Mor.   What  lead  then  ? 
Aid.       Thou  Shalt  flash  it  secretly 
Among  the  good  Northumbrian  folk, 
that  I—  [ently 
That  Harold  loves  me — yea,  and  pres- 
That  I  and  Harold  are  betroth'd— and 
last—'  [I  would  not 

Perchance  that  Harold  wrongs  me  ;  tho' 
That  it  should  come  to  that. 

Mor.  I  will  both  flash 

And  thunder  for  thee. 

Aid.  I  said  '  secretly  ; ' 

It  is  the  flash  that  murders,  the  poor 

thunder 
Never  harm'd  head. 

Mor.  But  thunder  may  bring  down 
That  which  the  flash  hath  stricken. 

Aid.  Down  with  Tostig  ! 

That  first  of  all. — And  when  doth  Harold 
go  ?  [then  to  Flanders. 

Mor.   To-morrow- first  to  Bosham, 
Aid.   Not  to  come  back  till  Tostig 
shall  have  shown  [the  teeth 

And  redden'd  with  his  people's  blood 
That  shall  be  broken  by  us— yea,  and 
thou  [dream  thyself 

Chair'd  in  his  place.    Good-night,  and 
Their  chosen  Earl.         [Exit  Akhvyth. 
Mor.  Earl  first,  and  after  that 


524 

Who  knows  I  may  not  dream  myself 
their  king  ! 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Seashore.  Ponthien.  Night. 
Harold  and  his  Men,  wrecked. 
Har.   Friends,  in  that  last  inhospita- 
ble plunge  [are  whole  ; 
Our  boat  hath  burst  her  ribs  ;  but  ours 
I  have  but  bark'd  my  hands. 

Attendant.  I  dug  mine  into 

My  old  fast  friend  the  shore,  and  cling- 
ing thus  [deep 
Felt  the  remorseless  outdranght  of  the 
Haul  like  a  great  strong  fellow  at  my 
legs,  [that  came 

And  then  I  rose  and  ran.    The  blast 
So  suddenly  hath  fallen  as  suddenly- 
Put  thou  the  comet  and  this  blast  i  o- 
together —  [wit  together. 

Ear.  Put  thou  thyself  and  mother- 
Be  not  a  fool ! 

Enter  Fishermen  with  torches,  Harold 
going  up  to  one  of  them,  Rolf. 
Wicked  sea-will-o'-the  wisp  ! 
Wolf  of  the  shore  !  dog,  with  thy  lying 
lights  [thine ! 

Thou  hast  betray'd  us  on  these  rocks  of 
Eolf.  Ay,  but  thou  liest  as  loud  as  the 
black  herring-pond  behind  thee.  We 
be  fishermen,  I  came  to  see  after  my 
nets. 

Har.    To  drag  us  into  them.  Fisher- 
men? devils  !  [false  fires, 
Who,  while  ye  fish  for  men  with  your 
Let  the  great  Devil  fish  for  your  own 
souls. 

Bolf.   Nay  then,  we  be  liker  the  bless- 
ed Apostles  ;  tit.ey  were  fishers  of  men, 
Father  Jean  says. 
Har.   I  had  liefer  that  the  fisli  liad 
swallowed  me,  [such  devils. 

Like  Jonah,  than  have  known  there  were 
What's  to  be  done? 

{To  his  Men— goes  apart  ufith  ihern. 
Fisherman.   Roif,  what  fish  did  swal- 
low Jonah  ? 
Rolf.   A  whale  ! 

Fish.  Then  a  whale  to  a  whelk  wo 
have  swallowed  the  King  of  England.  I 
saw  him  over  there.  Look  thee,  liolf, 
.when  I  was  down  in  the  fever,  sli.«  was 
down  with  the  hunger,  and  thou  didst 


Act  2 

stand  by  her  and  give  her  thy  crabs,  and 
set  her  up  again,  till  now,  by  the  patient 
Saints,  she's  as  crabb  d  as  ever. 

jRolf.  And  I'll  give  her  my  crabs 
again,  when  thou  art  down  again. 

Fish.  I  thank  thee,  Rolf.  Run  thou 
to  Count  Guy  ;  he  is  hard  at  hand.  Tell 
him  what  hath  crept  into  our  creel,  and 
he  will  fee  thee  as  freely  as  he  will 
wrench  this  outlander's  ransom  out  of 
him— and  why  not  ?  for  what  right  had 
he  to  get  himself  wrecked  on  another 
man's  land? 

Bnlf.  Thou  art  the  human-hearted- 
est.Cnristian-charitiest  of  all  crab-catch- 
ers !   Share  and  share  alike  !  [Exit. 

Har.  {to  Fisherman).  Fellow,  dost 
thou  catch  crabs  ? 

Fish,  As  few  as  I  may  in  a  wind, 
and  less  than  I  would  in  a  calm.   Ay  ! 

Har.   I  have  a  mind  that  thou  shalt 

Fish.   How  ?  [catch  no  more. 

Har.  I  have  a  mind  to  brain  thee 
with  mine  axe. 

Fish.  Ay,  do,  do,  and  our  great 
Count-crab  will  make  his  nippers  meet 
in  thine  heart ;  he'll  sweat  it  out  of 
thee,  he'll  sweat  it  out  of  thee.  Look, 
he's  here  1  He'll  speak  for  himself  ! 
Hold  thine  own,  if  thou  canst  1 

Fater  Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu. 
Har.   Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu  ! 
Guij.         Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex  ! 
Har.   Thy  villains  with  their  lying 

lights  have  wreck'd  us  ! 
Guy.   Art  thou  not  Earl  of  Wessex  ? 
Har.  In  mine  earldom 

A  man  may  hang  gold  bracelets  on  a 
^  bush,  [back 
And  leave  them  for  a  year,  and  coming 
Find  them  again. 

Gify.  Thou  art  a  mighty  man 

In  thine  own  earldom  ! 

Har.         Were  such  murderous  liars 
In  Wessex— if  I  caught  them,  tliey 
should  hang  [mew 
Cliff-gibbeted  tor  sea-marks  ;  our  sea- 
Wingmg  their  only  wail  1 

Guy. "  Ay,  but  my  men 

Hold  that  the  shipwreckt  are  accurf^ed 
of  God  ;—  [men  ? 

What  hinders  me  to  hold  with  mine  own 
Har.    The  Christian  manhood  of  the 
man  who  reigns  ! 


HAROLD. 


Seem  2 

Guy.    Ay,  rave  thy  worst,  1  ut  in  our 
oiiloliettes 

Thou  Shalt  or  rot  or  ransom.  Hale  him 
hence  !     {To  one  of  his  attendants. 

Fly  ihou  to  William  ;  tell  him  we  have 
Harold. 

Scene  II.— Bayeux.    Palace.  Count 
William  and  William  Ma.et. 
William,.   We  hold  our  Saxon  wood- 
cock in  the  springe, 

But  he  begins  to  flutter.   As  I  think 

He  was  fliine  host  in  England  wiien  I 
went 

To  visit  Edward. 
Malet.        Yea,  and  there,  my  lord, 

To  make  allowance  for  their  rougiier 
fashions, 

I  found  him  all  a  noble  host  should  be. 
Will.    Thou   art    his  friend :  thou 

know'st  my  claim  on  England 
Thro'  Edward's  promise  :  we  have  liim 

in  the  toils.  [him  feel, 

And  it  were  well,  if  thou  shouldst  let 
How  dense  a  fold  of  danger  nets  him 

round. 

So  that  he  bristle  himself  against  my 
will.  [I  were  you  ? 

Malet.   What  would  I  do,  my  lord,  if 
Will.   What  wouidst  thou  do  ? 
Malet.        My  lord,  he  is  thy  guest. 
Will.   Nay,  by  the  splendor  of  God, 
no  guest  of  mine, 
fie  came  not  to  see  me,  had  past  me  by 
To  liunt  and  hawk  elsewhere,  save  for 
the  fate  [blast, 
Which  hunted  him  when  that  un-iSaxoii 
And  bolts  of  thunder  moulded  in  high 
heaven  [crack'd 
To  serve  the  Norman  purpose,  drave  and 
His  boat  on  Ponthieu  beach  ;  where  our 
friend  Guy  [rack, 
Had  wi'ung  his  random  from  him  by  the 
But  that  1  stept  between  and  purchased 
him. 

Translating  his  captivity  from  Gu}'' 
To  mine  own  hearth  at  Bayeux,  where 
he  sits  my  ransom'd  prisoner. 
Malet.  Well,  if  not  with  gold. 

With  golden  deeds  and  iron  strokes  that 
brought 

Thy  war  with  Brittany  to  a  jroodlier  close 
Than  else  had  been,  he  paid  his  ransom 
back.  [like  to  league 

Will.    So  that  henceforth  they  are  not 


525 

'  With  Harold  against  me. 

Malet.  A  marvel,  how 

He  from  the  liquid  san^s  of  Coesnon 
Haled    thy   shore-swallow'd,  armor'd 

Normans  up 
To  fight  for  thee  again  ! 

Wul.  Perchance  against 

Their  saver,  save  thou  save  him  from 
himself.  [again,  my  lord. 

Malet.    But  I  should  let  him  home 
Will.    Simple  I  let  lly  the  bird  w'ithin 
the  hand. 

To  catch  the  bird  again  within  the  bush  ! 
No.  [with  me  ; 

Smooth  thou  my  way,  before  he  clash 
1  want  his  voice  in  England  for  the 

crown,  [round ; 

I  want  thy  voice  with  him  to  bring  him 
And  being  brave  he  must  be  subtly 

cow'd,  [swear 
And  being  truthful  wrought  upon  to 
Vows  that  he  dare  not  break.  England 

our  ovMi  [friend 
Thro'  Harold's  help,  he  shall  be  my  dear 
As  well  as  thine,  and  thou  thyself  shalt 

have  [tory. 
Large  lordship  there  of  lands  and  terri- 
Malet.    I  knew  thy  purpose  ;  he  and 

Wulfnoth  never  [meet 
Have  met,  except  in  public  ;  shall  tiiey 
In  private?    I  have  often  talk'd  with 

Wulfnoth,  may  act 

And  stuff  "d  the  boy  with  fears  that  these 
On  Harold  when  they  meet. 

Will.  Then  let  them  meet  ! 

Malet.   I  can  but  love  this  noble, 

honest,  Harold. 
Will.    Love  him  !  w^hy  not  ?  thine  is 

a  loving  office,  [man  : 

I  have  ccmimissiou'd  thee  to  save  the 
Help  the  good  ship,  showing  the  sunken 

rock, 

Or  he  is  wreckt  for  ever. 

Enter  William  Rufus. 
William  Rufus.  Father. 
Will.  Well,  boy. 

Will.  Ryf.    They  have  taken  away 
the  toy  thou  gavest  me. 
The  Norman  knight. 

Will.  Why,  boy  ? 

Will.  Ruf.  Because  I  broke 

The  horse's  leg— it  was  mine  own  to 
break ;  [too. 
I  like  to  have  my  toys,  and  break  them 


HAROLD. 


526  IIAROLD. 

Will.    Well,  thou  shalt  have,  another 

Norman  knight ! 
Will.  Ryf.    And  may  I  break  his  legs? 
Will.  Yea, — get  thee  gone  ! 

Will.  Ryf.    I'll  tell  them  I  have  had 
my  way  with  thee.  [Exit. 
Malet.    I  never  knew  thee  check  thy 
will  for  ought 
Save  for  the  prattling  of  thy  little  ones. 
Will   Who  shall  be  kings  of  Eng- 
land.   I  am  heir 
Of  England  by  the  promise  of  her  king. 
Malet.    But  there  the  great  Assembly 
choose  their  king,  [England. 
The  choice  of  England  is  the  voice  of 
Will.    I  will  be  king  of  England  by 
the  laws, 
The  choice,  and  voice  of  England. 
Malet.  Can  that  be  ? 

Will.   The  voice  of  any  peo})le  is  the 
sword  [beats  them  down. 

That  guards  them,  or  the  sword  that 
Here  comes  the  would-be  what  I  will 
be  .  .  .  kinglike  ...  [es  break, 
Tho'  scarce  at  ease  ;  for,  save  our  mesh- 
More  kingiike  he  than  like  to  prove  a 
king. 

[Ente?'  Harold,  miismg,  with  his  eyf.s 
on  the  ground.  [riie. 
He  sees  me  not— and  yet  he  dreams  of 
Earl,  wilt  thou  fly  my  falcons  this  fair 
day  ?  la^ainsr  the  wind. 

They  are  of  the  best,  strong-wing'd 
Ha7\  {looking  up  suddeDhj,  having 
caught  but  the  last  word).  WhicJi 
way  does  it  blow  ? 
Will.       Blowing  for  En-land,  ha  ? 
Not  yet.  Thou  hast  not  leiirnt  thy  (iiiar- 
ters  here.  [tlu'se  t<)\v(>rs. 

The  winds  so  cross  and  josth'  nniong 
Har.    Count  of  the  Nonnans,  thou 
hast  ransom'd  us. 
Maintained,  and  entertained  us  royally  ! 
Will.    Ard  thou  for  us  hast  fought  as 
loyally, 

Which  binds  us  friendship-fast  forever! 

Har.  (iood  ! 

But  lest  we  turn  the  scale  of  courtesy 
B}^  too  much  i)ressure  on  it,  I  would 

fain,  fhonic  with  iis. 

Since  thou  hast  promised  Wuilnoth 
Be  home  again  with  Wulfnotli. 

Will.  Stay— as  y(;t 

Thou  hast  but  seen  how  Norinua  hands 

can  strike, 


Act  2 

But  walk'd  our  Norman  field,  scarce 

touched  or  tasted, 
The  splendors  of  our  Court, 

Har.  I  am  in  no  mood  : 

I  should  be  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Crossing  your  light. 

Will.         Nay,  rest  a  week  or  two, 
And  w^e  will  fill  thee  full  of  Norman  sun, 
And  send  thee  back  among  thine  island 
With  laughter,  [mist« 
Har.      Count,  I  thank  thee,  but  had 
rather  [Saxon  downs, 

Breathe  the  free  wind  from  off  our 
Tho'  charged  with  all  the  wet  of  all  the 
west.  [thou  shalt. 

Will.    Why  if  thou  wilt,  so  let  it  be- 
That  were  a  graceless  hospitality 
To  chain  the  free  guest  to  the  banquet- 
board  ;  [rteur. 
To-morrow  w^e  will  ride  with  thee  to  Har- 
And  see  thee  shipt,  and  pray  in  thy  be- 
half [which  ci  ack'd 
For  happier  homeward  winds  than  that 
Thy  bark  at  Ponthieu,— yet  to  us  in 
faith,  [know 
A  ha])i)y  one— whereby   we  came  to 
Thy  vylor  and  thy  value,  nobU;  earl. 
Ay,  and  i)erchance  a  hapi)y  one  for  thee. 
Provided— I  will  go  with  thee  to-mor- 
row— 

Nay — but  there  be  conditions,  easy  ones, 
So  thou,  fair  friend,  will  take  tliem 
easily. 

Enter  Page. 
Page.    My  lord,  there  is  a  post  from 
over  seas 

With  news  for  thee.  {Exit  Page. 

Will.        Come,  Malet,  let  us  hear  ! 

[Exeunt  Count  William Malet. 
Har.    Conditions?  What  conditions  ? 
pay  him  back  Lii:iy— 
His  ransom  ?  'rasy'— that  were  ea>y— 
No  UKuiey-lover  he !    What  said  the 
King  ? 

'  I  pray  you  do  not  go  to  Norm.'indy . ' 
And  fa  e  hath  blown  me  hither,  hound 
nu'  too 

With  i)itt('rol)li:j:ation  to  the  Count  - 
Have  i  not  fought  it  out  ?  What  did  Iir 
moan  ?  [eyes, 
TheiH!  lodged  a  lilcaniinggrimness  in  his 
(iav(i  his  shorn  smile  the  lie.  The  walla 
oppress  me,  [the  heaven. 

And  yon  huge  keep  that  hinders  half 
Free  air  I  free  field  ! 


Scene  2 

[Moves  to  go  out.   A  Man -at- Arms  fol- 

loms  him. 
Har.  {to  the  Man-at- Arms) .  I  need  thee 

not.   Wh)'  dost  thou  follow  me  ? 
Man-at- Aims.    1  have  the  Count's 

commands  to  follow  thee. 
Har.   What  then  ?  Am  I  in  danger 

in  this  court  ? 
Man-at- Arm.s.   I  cannot  tell.    I  have 

the  Count's  commands. 
Har.    Stand  out  of  earshot  then,  and 
In  ej^eshot.  [keep  me  still 

Man-at-Arm.s.       Yea,  lord  Harold. 

[  Withdraws. 
Har.  And  arm'd  men 

Ever  keep  watch  beside  my  chamber 

door. 

And  if  I  walk  within  the  lonely  wood, 
There  is  an  arm'd  man  ever  glides  be- 
hind ! 

Enter  Malet. 
Why  am  I  followed,  haunted,  harassed, 
See  yonder  I  [watch'd  ? 

[Pointing  to  Man-at-Arms. 
Malet.    'Tis  the  good  Count's  care  for 
thee  I  [Normans, 
The  Normans  love  thee  not,  nor  thou  the 
Or — so  they  deem. 

Har.       But  wherefore  is  the  wind, 
Which  way  soever  the  vane-arrow  swing, 
Not  ever  fair  for  England  ?    Why  but 
now  [not  hence 

He  said  (thou  heardst  him)  that  I  must 
Save  on  conditions. 
Malet.  So  in  truth  he  said. 

Har.   Malet,  thy  mother  was  an  Eng- 
lishwoman ; 
There   somewhere  beats  an  English 
pulse  in  thee  ! 
Malet.   Well— for  my  mother's  sake  I 
love  your  England, 
But  for  my  father  I  love  Normandy, 
Har.   Speak  for  thy  mother's  sake, 

and  tell  me  true. 
Malet.    Then  for  my  mother's  sake, 
and  England's  sake 
That  suffers  in  the  daily  want  of  thee, 
Obey  the  Count's  conditions,  my  good 
friend.  [honorable  ! 

Har.   How,  Malet,  if  they  be  not 
Malet.   Seem  to  obey  them. 
Har.  Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Malet.  Choose  therefore  whetner  thou 
wilt  have  thy  conscience 


527 

White  as  a  maiden's  hand,  or  whethe» 

England 
Be  shatter'd  into  fragments. 
Har.  News  from  England  ? 

Malet.  Morcar  and  Edwin  have 
stirr'd  up  the  Thanes  [nance  ; 

Against  thy  brother  Tostig's  gover- 
And  all  the  North  of  H umber  is  one 
storm.  [should  be  there  ! 

Har.    1  should  be  there,  Malet,  I 
Malet.   And  Tostig  in  his  own  hall  on 
suspicion  [guest. 
Hath  maf^sacred  the  Thane  that  was  his 
Gamel,  the  son  of  Orm  :  and  there  be 
As  villainously  slain.  [more 

Har.  The  wolf  !  the  beast ! 

Ill  news  for  guests,  ha,  Malet  I   More  ? 

What  more  ?  [of  this  ? 

What  do  they  say  ?  did  Edward  know 
Malet.   They  say,  his  wife  was  know- 
ing and  abetting. 
Har.   They  say,  his  wife  !— To  marry 
and  have  no  husband       [be  there. 
Makes  the  wife  fool.   My  God,  I  should 
I'll  hack  my  way  to  the  sea. 

Malet.       Thou  canst  not,  Harold  ; 
Our  Duke  is  all  between  thee  and  the 
sea. 

Our  Duke  is  all  about  thee  like  a  God  ; 

All  passes  block'd.  Obey  him,  speak 
him  fair, 

For  he  is  only  debonair  to  those 

That  follow  where  he  leads,  but  stark 
as  death  [here  is  Wulfnoth  ! 

To  those  that  cross  him. — Look  the:', 

I  leave  thee  to  thy  talk  with  him  alone  ; 

How  wnn,  poor  lad  !  how  sick  and  sad 
for  home  !  [Exit  Malet. 

Har.  {niuitering).  Go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy—go not  to  Normandy  ! 

Elder  Wulfnoth. 
Poor  brother  !  still  a  hostage  ! 

Wulfnoth.  Yea,  and  I 

Shall  see  the  dewy  kiss  of  dawn  no 
more  [tall  cliti's, 

Make  blush  the  maiden-white  of  our 
Nor  mark  the  sea-bird  rouse  himself 

and  hover 
Above  the  windy  ripple,  and  fill  the  sky 
With  free  sea-laughter— never— save  in- 
deed [ed  Duke 
Thou  canst  maKe  yield  this  iron-mood- 
To  let  me  go. 
Har.       Why,  brother,  so  he  will ; 


HAROLD. 


52» 

But  on  conditions.   Canst  thou  guess 
at  them.  [corridor, 
Wulf.   Draw  nearer,— I  was  in  the 
I  saw  him  coming  with  his  brother  Odo 
The  Bayeux  bishop,  and  I  hid  myself. 
Har.   They  did  thee  wrong  who  made 
thee  hostage ;  thou 
Wast  ever  fearful. 

Wulf,    And  he  spoke— I  heard  him — 
'This  Harold  is  not  of  the  royal  blood. 
Can  have  no  right  to  the  crown,'  and 
Odo  said,  [he  is  here, 

'  Thine  is  the  right,  for  thine  the  might ; 
And  yonder  is  thy  keep.' 
liar.  No,  Wulfnoth,  no. 

Widf.   And    William    laugh'd  and 
swore  that  might  was  right. 
Far  as  he  knew  in  this  poor  world  of 
ours —  [us, 
'  Marry,  the  Saints  must  go  along  with 
And,  brother,  we  will  find  a  way,'  said 

he- 
Yea,  yea,  he  would  be  king  of  England. 
Ha7\  Never  1 

Wvlf.   Yea,  but  thou  must  not  this 
way  answer  him.  [the  truth  ? 

Har.   Is  it  not  better  still  to  speak 
Wulf.   Not  here,  or  thou  wilt  never 
hence  nor  I  :  [goal 
For  in  the  racing  toward  this  golden 
He  turns  not  right  or  left,  but  tramples 
flat  [heard 
Whatever  thwarts  him  ;  hast  thou  never 
His  savagery  at  Alen^on,— the  town 
Hung  out  raw  hides  along  their  walls, 

and  cried 
'  Work  for  the  tanner.' 

Har.  That  had  anger' d  rne 

Had  I  been  William. 

Wulf.      Njiy,  but  he  had  prisoners. 
He  tore  their  eyes  out,  sliced  their 
hands  away,  [tlements 
And  flung  them  streaming  o'er  the  bat- 
Upon  the  heads  of  tliose  who  walk'd 
within —  [sake. 
O  speak  him  fair,  Harold,  for  thine  own 
Har.   Your  Welshman    says,  'The 
Truth  against  the  World,' 
Much  more  the  truth  against  myself. 

Wulf.  Thyself  ? 

But  for  my  sake,  oh  brother  !  oh  1  for 
my  Bake  1 

Har.   Poor  Wulfnoth  !  do  they  not 
entreat  thee  well  ?  [geon  loom 

Wulf.   I  see  the  blackness  of  my  dun- 


Act2 

Across  their  lamps  of  revel,  and  beyond 
The  merriest  murmurs  of  their  banquet 
clank  [wall. 
The  shackles  that  will  bind  me  to  the 
Har.   Too  fearful  still  I 
Wylf.       Oh  no,  no— speak  him  fair  ! 
Call  it  to  temporize  ;  and  not  to  lie  ; 
Harold,  I  do  not  counsel  thee  to  lie. 
The  man  that  hath  to  foil  a  murderous 
May,  surely,  play  with  words.  [aim 

Har.  Words  are  the  man. 

Not  ev'n  for  thy  sake,  brother,  would  I 
Wulf.  Then  for  thine  Edith  ?  [lie. 
Har.  There  thou  prickst  me  deep. 
Wulf.  And  for  our  Mother  England  ? 
Har.  Deeper  still. 

Wulf.   And  deeper  still   the  aeep- 
down  oubliette,  [day— 
Down  thirty  feet  below  the  smiling 
In  blackness — dogs'  food  thrown  upon 

thy  head. 
And  over  thee  the  suns  arise  and  set, 
And  the  lark  sings,  the  sweet  stars  come 
and  go,  [fields 
And  men  are  at  their  markets,  in  their 
And  woo  their  loves  and  have  forgotten 
thee ;  [grave, 
And  thou  art  upright  in  thy  living 
Where  there  is  barely  room  to  shift  rhy 
side,  [thee  ; 

And  all  thine  England  hath  forgotten 
And  he  our  lazy-pious  Norman  King, 
With  all  his  Normans  round  him  once 
again,  [thee. 
Counts  his  old  beads,  and  hath  forgotten 
Har.   Thou  art  of  my  blood,  and  so 
methinks,  my  boy,  [Peace  I 

Thy  fears  infect  me  beyond  reason. 
Wulf.   And  then  our  fiery  Tostig, 
while  thy  hands  [rise 
Are  palsied  here,  if  his  Northumbrians 
And  hurl  him  from  them,— I  have  heard 
the  Normans  [make 
Count  upon  this  confusion- may  he  not 
A  league  with  William,  so  to  bring  him 
hack  ?  [of  the  chance. 

Har.   That  lies  within  the  shadow 
Wvlf.    And  like  a  river  in  flood  thro' 
a  burst  dam  [good  Kini'. 

Descends  the   ruthless   Norman— our 
Kneels  mumbling  some  old  bone— our 
helpless  folk  [blood- 
Are  wash'd  away,  wailing,  in  their  o\m) 
Har.   Wailing  I  not  warring  ?  Boy, 
thou  hast  forgotten 


HAROLD, 


Scene  2 

That  thou  art  English. 

Wulf.     Then  our  modest  women— 
I  know  the  Norman  license— thine  own 
Edith—  [ — William  comes. 

Har.   No  more  !  I  will  not  hear  thee 
Wu//.   I  dare  not  well  be  seen  in  talk 
with  thee.  [witti  thee. 

Make  thou  not  mention  that  I  spake 
[Moves  away  to  the  hack  of  the  stage. 

Enter  William,  Malet,  and  Officer. 
Officer.   We  have  the  man  that  raiPd 

against  thy  birth. 
Will.   Tear  out  his  tongue. 
Officer.  He  shall  not  rail  again 

He  said  that  he  should  see  confusion  fall 
On  thee  and  on  thine  house. 

Will.  Tear  out  his  eyes, 

And  plunge  him  into  prison. 

Officer.  It  shall  be  done. 

[Edcit  Officer. 
Will.    Look  not  amazed,  fair  earl ! 
Better  leave  undone 
Than  do  by  iialves— tongueless  and  eye- 
less, prison'd—  [man  at  once  ! 
Har.   Better  methinks  have  slain  the 
Will.    We  have  respect  for  man's  im- 
mortal soul,  [war ; 
We  seldom  take  man's  life,  except  in 
It  frights  the  traitor  more  to  maim  and 
blind.          [have  scorn'd  the  man, 
Har.   In  mine  own  land  I  should 
Or  lash'd  his  rascal  back,  and  let  him  go. 
Will.   And  let  him  go  ?   To  slander 
thee  again !  [day 
Yet  in  thine  own  land  in  thy  father's 
They  blinded  my  young  kinsman,  Al- 
fred— aj. 
Some  said  it  was  thy  father's  deed. 
Har.                            They  lied. 
Will.   But  thoti  and  he — whom  at  thy 
word,  for  thou 
Art  known  a  speaker  of  the  truth,  I  free 
From  this  foul  charge — 

Har.       Nay,  nay,  he  freed  himself 
By  oath  and  compurgation  from  the 
chatge.  [him  of  it. 

The  king,  the  lords,  the  people  clear'd 
Will.    But  thou  and  he  drove  our  good 
Normans  out  [yet. 
From  England,  and  this  rankles  in  us 
Archbishop  Robert  hardly  scaped  with 
life.  [the  Archbishop  ! 

Har.   Archbishop   llobert  1  Robert 
Robert  of  Jumieges,  he  that — 
Malet.  Quiet  I  quiet  I 

34 


529 

Har.   Count !  if  there  sat  within  thy 

NormaR  chair 
A  ruler  all  for  England — one  who  fill'd 
A 11  offices,  all  bishoprics  with  English — 
We  could  not  move  from  Dover  to  the 

H  umber 

Saving  thro' Norman  bishoprics— I  say 
Ye  would  applaud  that  Norman  who 

should  drive 
The  stranger  to  the  fiends  ! 

Will.  Why,  that  is  reason  ! 

Warrior  thou  art,  and  mighty  wise 

withal  !  [lords 
Ay,  a3%  but  many  among  our  Norman 
Hate  thee  for  this,  and  press  upon  me — 

saying  [hands — 

God  and  the  sea  have  given  thee  to  our 
To  plunge  thee  into  life-long  prison 

here  : — 

Yet  I  hold  out  against  them,  as  I  may. 
Yea — would  hold  out,  yea,  tlio'  they 
should  revolt —  [cause  ; 

For  thou  hast  done  the  battle  in  my 
I  a'H  thy  fastest  friend  in  Normandy. 
Har.    I  am  doubly  bound  to  thee  .  .  . 

if  this  be  so.        [and  would  my.sclf 
Will.    And  I  w^ould  bind  thee  more, 
Be  bounden  to  thee  more. 

Hai\  Then  let  me  hence 

With  Wulfnoth  to  King  Edward. 

Will.  So  we  will. 

We  hear  he  hath  not  long  to  live. 
Har.  It  may  be. 

Will.   Why  then  the  heir  of  England, 
who  is  he  ?  [throne. 
Har.    The  Atheling  is  nearest  to  the 
Will.   But  sickly,  slight,  half-witted 
and  a  child, 
Will  England  have  him  king  ? 
Har.  It  may  be,  no. 

Will.    And  hath  King  Edward  not 

pronounced  his  heir  ? 
Har.   Not  that  I  know. 
Will.   When  he  was  here  in  Nor- 
mandy, [found  him 
He  loved  us  and  we  him  because  we 
A  Norman  of  the  Normans. 
Har.                            So  did  we. 
Will,   A  gentle,  gracious,  pure  and 
saintly  man  !  [him, 
And  grateful  to  the  hand  that  shielded 
He  promised  that  if  ever  he  were  king 
In  England,  he  would  give  his  kingly 
voice  [this  ? 
I  Tome  as  his  successor.    Knowest  thou 


HAROLD. 


630 

Har.   I  learn  it  now. 

^y^ll.  Thou  knowest  I  am  his  cousin, 
And  that  my  wife  descends  from  Alfred  ? 

Har.  Ay. 

Will.   Who  hath  a  better  claim  then 
to  the  crown 
So  that  ye  will  not  crown  the  Atheling  ? 

Har.  None  that  I  know  ...  if  that 
King  Edward's  will.       [but  hung  upon 

Will.      Wilt  thou  uphold  my  claim  ? 

MaVet  {aside  to  Harold).  Be  careful  of 
thine  answer,  my  good  friend. 

Wulf.  {aside  to  Harold).    Oh  I  Har- 
old, for  my  sake  and  for  thine  own  ! 

Har.   Ay  ...  if  the  king  have  not 
revoked  his  promise. 

Will.   But  hath  he  done  it  then  ? 

Har.  Not  that  I  know. 

Will.   Good,  good,  and  thou  wilt  help 
me  to  the  crown. 

Har.   Ay  ...  if  the  Witan  will  con- 
sent to  this.  [England,  man. 

Will.   Thou  art  the  mightiest  voice  in 
Thy  voice  will  lead  the  Witan — shall  I 
have  it  ? 

Wulf.  {aside  to  Harold).  Oh  !  Harold, 

if  thou  love  thine  Edith,  ay. 
Har.   Ay,  if— 

Malet  {aside  to  Harold).    Thine  '  ifs  ' 

will  sear  thine  eyes  out — ay. 
Will.   I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou  help  me 
to.  the  crown  ? 
And  I  will  make  thee  my  great  Earl  of 
Earls, 

Foremost  in  England  and  in  Normandy; 
Thou  shalt  be  verily  king — all  but  the 
name — 

For  I  shall  most  sojourn  in  Normandy  ; 
And  thou  be  my  vice-king  in  England. 
Speak. 

Wulf.  {aside  to  Harold).    Ay,  brother 

— for  the  sake  of  England — ay. 
Har.   My  lord.  [now. 
Malet  {aside  to  Harold).    Take  hecsd 


Har.  Ay. 
Will.  I  am  content, 

For  thou  art  truthful,  and  thy  word  thy 
bond.  [Harflenr. 


To-morrow  will  we  ride  with  tiice  to 
[Exit  William. 
Malet.   Harold,  I  am  thy  friend,  one 
life  with  thee,  [mine, 
And  even  as  I  should  bless  thee  saving 
I  thank  thee  now  for  havinj;  saved  thy- 
self. \Exit  Malet. 


Act  2 

Har.   For  having  lost  myself  to  save 
myself,  [lad 
Said  '  ay '  when  I  meant '  no,'  lied  like  a 
That  dreads  the  pendent  scourge,  said 
'  ay '  f  or  *  no '  !  [oath- 
Ay  !  No  ! — he  hath  not  bound  me  by  an 
Is  '  ay '  an  oath  ?  is  '  ay '  strong  as  an 
oath  ? 

Or  is  it  the  same  sin  to  break  my  word 
As  break  mine  oath  ?    He  calPd  my 

word  my  bond  I 
He  is  a  liar  who  knows  I  am  a  liar, 
And  makes  believe  that  he  believes  my 

word—  [ — no. 

The  crime  be  on  his  head— not  bounden 

Suddenly  doors  are  flung  open,  discov- 
ering in  an  inner  hall  Count  WiLiam 
in  his  state  robes,  seated  upon  his 
throne,  between  two  Bishops,  Odo  of 
Bayeux  being  one :  in  the  centre  of 
the  hall  an  ark  covered  with  cloth  of 
gold ;  and  on  either  side  of  it  the 
Norman  barons. 

Enter  a  Jailor  before  William's  throne. 

Will,  {to  Jailor).  Knave,  hast  thou 
let  thy  prisoner  scape  ? 

Jailor.  Sir  Count, 

He  had  but  one  foot,  he  must  have  hopt 
away,  [helped  him. 

Yea,  some  familiar  spirit  must  have 
Will.   Woe  knave  to  thy  familiar  and 
to  thee  ! 

Give  me  iliy  keys.    [  Theij  fall  clashinq. 

Nay  let  them  lie.    Stand  there  and  wait 
my  will.    [  The  Jailor  stands  aside. 
Will,  {to  Harold).    Hast  thou  such 

trustless  jailors  in  thy  North  ? 
Har.   We  have  few  prisoners  in  mine 
earldom  there, 

So  less  chance  for  false  keepers. 
Will.  We  have  heard 

Of  tliy  just,  mild,  and  equal  governance; 

Honor  to  thee  1  thou  art  perfect  in  all 
honor  !  i  [now 

Thy  naked  word  thy  bond  I  confirm  it 

IJct'ore  ourpither'd  Norman  baronage, 

For  they  will  not  believe  thee — as  I  be- 
lieve. 

[Descends  from  his  throne  and  stands 
by  the  ark.  [bond  1 

Let  all  men  here  bear  witness  of  our 

[Beckons  to  Harold  who  advances.  En- 
ter Malet  behind  him. 


HAROLD. 


Scene  2 

Lay  thou  thy  hand  upon  this  golden 
pall  ! 

Behold  the  jewel  of  St.  Pancratius 
Woven  into  the  gold.   Swear  thou  on 
this  ! 

Har.   What  should  I  swear  ?  Why 

should  I  swear  on  this  ? 
Will,  (savagely).   Swear  thou  to  help 

me  to  the  crown  of  England. 
Malet    iwhiS27ering    Harold).  My 

friend,  thou  hast  gone  too  far  to 

palter  now. 
Wulf.  {whispering  Harold).  Swear 

thou  to-day,  to-morrow  is  thine  own. 
Har.   I  swear  to  help  thee  to  the 

crown  of  England  .  .  . 
According  as  King  Edward  promises. 
Will.   Thou  must  swear  absolutely, 

noble  Earl. 
Malet  (whispering).   Delay  is  death 

to  thee,  ruin  to  England. 
Wulf.  (whispering).   Swear,  dearest 

brother,  I  beseech  thee,  swear  ! 
Harold  (putting  his  hand  on  the  jewel) . 

I  swear  to  help  thee  to  the  crown  of 

England.         [not  doubt  thy  word. 
Will.    Thanks,  truthful  Earl ;  I  did 
But  that  my  barons  might  believe  thy 

word, 

And  that  the  holy  Saints  of  Normandy 
When  thou  art  home  in  England,  with 

thine  own,  [word, 
Might  strengthen  thee  in  keeping  of  thy 
I  made  thee  swear.    Show   him  by 

whom  he  hath  sworn. 
The  two  Bishops  advance  and  raise 

the  cloth  of  gold.    The  bodies  and 

bones  of  Saints  are  seen  lying  in  the 

ark. 

The  holy  bones  of  all  the  Canonized 
From  all  the  holiest  shrines  in  Nor- 
man  Horrible  ! '  [mandy. 

{They  let  the  cloth  fall  again. 
Will.         Ay,  for  thou  hast  sworn  an 

oath  [hard  earth  rive 

Which,  if  not  kept,  would  make  the 
To  the  vei-y  Devil's  horns,  the  bright  sky 

cleave  [hosts 
To  the  very  feet  of  God,  and  send  her 
Of  injured  Saints  to  scatter  sparks  of 

plague  [dash 
Thro'  all  j'^our  cities,  blast  your  infants, 
The  torch  of  war  amon^  your  standing 

com,  [blood. — Enough  ! 

Dabble  your  hearths  with  your  own 


531 

Thou  wilt  not  break  it !   I,  the  Count — 
the  King—  [est  oath. 

Thy  friend — am  grateful  for  thine  hon- 
Not  coming  fiercely  like  a  conqueror, 
now. 

But  softly  as  a  bridegroom  to  his  own. 
For  I  shall  rule  according  to  your  laws, 
And  make  your  ever-jarring  Earldoms 
move 

To  music  and  in  order — Angle,  Jute, 
Dane,  Saxon,  Norman,  help  to  build  a 

throne  [wind  is  fair 

Out-towering  hers  of  France  ...  The 
For  England  now  .  .  .  To-night  we  will 

be  merry.  [fleur. 
To-morrow  will  I  ride  with  thee  to  Har- 
\Exeunt  William  and  all  the  Norman 

barons^  <&c,  [to-morrow — 

Har.  To-night  we  will  be  merry — and 
Juggler  and  bastard — bastard — he  hates 

that  most— 
William  the  tanner's  bastard  !  Would 

he  heard  me  ! 

0  God,  that  I  were  in  some  wide,  waste 

field 

With  nothing  but  my  battle-axe  and  him 
To  spatter  his  brains  !    Why  let  earth 

rive,  gulf  in  [own  self. 

These  cursed  Normans — yea  and  mine 
Cleave  heaven,  and  send  thy  saints  that 

I  may  say  [liam 
Ev'n  to  their  faces,  '  If  ye  side  with  Wil- 
Ye  are  not  noble.'   How  their  pointed 

fingers  [son 
Glared  at  me  !  Am  I  Harold,  Harold 
Of  our  great  Godwin  ?  Lo  !  I  touch 

mine  arms,  [a  liar's — 

My  limbs — they  are  not  mine — they  are 

1  mean  to  be  a  liar— I  am  not  bound — 
Stigand  shall  give  me  absolution  for  it- 
Did  the  chest  move  ?  did  it  move  ?  1  am 

utter  craven  !      [hast  betray'd  me  ! 
O  Wulfnoth,  Wulfnoth,  brother,  thou 
Wulf.   Forgive  me,  brother,  I  will 
live  here  and  die. 

Enter  Page. 
Page.   My  lord !  the  Duke  awaits  thee 

at  the  banquet. 
Har.   Where  they  eat  dead  men's 

flesh,  and  drink  their  blood. 
Page.   My  lord—  [is  so  spiced, 

Har.   1  know  j^our  Norman  cooker}^ 
It  masks  all  this.  [death. 
Page.    My  lord  !  thou  art  white  as 


HAROLD. 


532 

Ha7\   "With  looking  on  the  dead.  Am 
I  so  white  ?  [I  follow. 

Thy  Duke  will  seem  the  darker.  Hence, 
\_Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

Scene  1.— The  King^s  Palace.  London. 
King  Edward  dying  on  a  couch,  and 
by  him  standing  the  Queen,  Harold. 
Archbishop  Stigand,  Gurth,  Leof- 
win.  Archbishop  Aldred,  Aldwyth, 
and  Edith. 
Stig.  Sleeping  or  dying  there?  If 
this  be  death,  [thee  King- 

Then  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown 
Come  hither,  I  have  a  power  ;  [to  Harold. 
They  call  me  near,  for  I  am  close  to 
thee  [I, 
And  England— I,  old  shrivell'd  Stigand, 
Dry  as  an  old  wood-fungus  on  a  deati 
I  have  a  power  !  [tree, 
See  here  this  little  key  about  my  neck  ! 
There  lies  a  treasure  buried  down  in 
.  Ely  :  [thee, 
If  e'er  the,  Norman  grow  too  hard  for 
Ask  me  for  this  at  thy  most  need,  son 
At  thy  most  need— nol  sooner.  [Harold, 
Ear.  So  I  will. 

Stig.  Red  gold— a  hundred  purses— 
yea,  and  more  !  [these 
If  thou  canst  make  a  wholesome  use  of 
To  chink  against  the  Norman,  I  do  be- 
lieve [two  young  wings 
My  old  crook'd  spine  w»Hild  bud  out 
To  fly  to  heaven  straight  with. 

Bar.  Thank  thee,  father  I 

Thou  art  English,  Edward  too  is  Eng- 
lish now,  [ism. 
He  hath  clean  repented  of  his  Norman- 
Stig.   Ay,  as  the  libertine  repents  who ' 
cannot  [in^  sense 

Make  done  undone,  when  thro'  his  dy- 
Shrills  Most  thro'  thee.'    They  have 
built  their  castles  here  ;  [adder 
Our  priories  are  Norman;  the  Norman 
Hath  bitten  us  ;  we  are  poison'd  :  our 
Is  demi-Norman.  He!—  [dear England 
[Pointing  to  King  sleeping, 
liar.  I  would  I  were 

As  holy  and  as  passionless  as  he  !  [him. 
That  I  might  rest  as  calmly  1   Look  at 
The  rosy  face,  and  long  down-silvering 
beard,  [mere. — 

The  brows  unwrinkled  as  a  summer 


Act  3 

Stig.   A  summer  mere  with  sudden 
wreckful  gusts  [he  flamed 

From  a  side-gorge.  Passionless  ?  How 
When  Tostig's  anger'd  earldom  flung 

him,  nay, 
He  fain  had  calcined  all  Northumbria 
To  one  black  ash,  but  that  thy  patriot 
passion  [Tostig, 
Siding  with  our  great  Council  against 
Out-passion'd  his  !   Holy  ?  ay,  ay,  for- 
sooth, [realm ; 
A  conscience  for  his  own  soul,  not  his 
A  twilight  conscience  lighted  thro'  a 
chink ;  [be. 
Thine  by  the  sun  ;  nay,  by  some  sun  to 
When  all  the  world  hath  learnt  to  speak 
the  truth, 

And  lying  were  self-murder  by  that  state 
Which  was  the  exception. 

Har.       That  sun  may  God  speed  ! 

Stig.  Come,  Harold,  shake  the  cloud 
off  I 

Har.  Can  I,  father  ? 

Our  Tostig  parted  cursing  me  and  Eng- 
land ; 

Our  sister  hates  us  for  his  banishment; 
He  hath  gone  to  kindle  Norway  against 
England, 

And  Wulfnoth  is  alone  in  Normandy. 
For  when  I  rode  with  William  down  to 

Harfleur,  [follow  ; ' 

'Wulfnoth  is  sick,'  he  said  ;  '  he  cannot 
Then  with  that  friendly-fiendly  smile  of 

his,  [little  longer 

*We  have  learnt  to  love  him,  let  him  a 
Remain  a  hostage  for  the  loyalty 
Of  Godwin's  house.'    As  far  as  touches 

Wulfnoth,  [truth 
I  that  so  prized  plain  word  and  naked 
Havesinn'd  against  it — all  in  vain. 

Laof.  Good  brother. 

By  ail  the  truths  that  ever  priest  hath 

preach'd. 

Of  all  the  lies  that  ever  men  have  lied. 
Thine  is  the  pardonablest. 

Har.  May  be  so  ! 

I  think  it  so,  I  think  I  am  a  fool 
To  think  it  can  be  otherwise  than  so. 

Stig.   Tut,  tut,  I  have  absolved  thee  : 
dost  thou  scorn  me. 
Because  I  had  my  Canterbury  pallium 
From  one  whom  they  dispoped  ? 

Har.  No,  Stigand,  no  ! 

Stig.  Is  naked  truth  actable  In  true 
life? 


HAROLD. 


Scene  1 


HAROLD. 


533 


I  have  heard  a  saying  of  thy  father 
Godwin, 

That,  were  a  man  of  state  nakedly  true, 
Men  would  but  take  him  for  the  craftier 

liar.  [Devil  himself? 

Leof,  Be  men  less  delicate  than  the 
I  thought  that  naked  truth  would  shame 

tlie  Devil, 
The  Devil  is  so  modest. 

Gurth.  He  never  said  it  ! 

Leof.   Be  thou    not  stupid-honest, 

brother  Gurth  1  [hold 
Har.   Better  to  be  a  liar's  dog,  and 
My  master  honest,  than  believe  that 

lying  [not 
And  ruling  men  are  fatal  twins  that  can- 
Move  one  without  the  other.  Edward 

wakes ! — 
Dazed— he  hath  seen  a  vision. 

Edw.  The  green  tree  ! 

Then  a  great  Angel  past  along  the  high- 
est [once 
Crying* the  doom  of  England,'  and  at 
He  stood  beside  me,  in  his  grasp  a  sword 
Of  lightnings,  wherewithal  he  cleft  the 

tree  [it  from  him 

From  off  the  bearing  trunk,  and  hurPd 
Three  fields  away,  and  then  he  dash'd 

and  drench'd,  [human  blood, 

He  dyed,  he  soak'd  the  trunk  with 
And  brought  the  sunder'd  tree  again, 

and  set  it  [tized  in  blood 

Straight  on  the  trunk,  that  thus  bap- 
Grew  ever  high  and  higher,  beyond  my 

seeing,  [the  deep 

And  shot  out  sidelong  boughs  across 
That  dropt  themselves,  and  rooted  in 

far  isles  [rose 
Beyond  my  seeing  :  and  the  great  Angel 
And  past  again  along  the  highest  crying 
*  The  doom  of  England  ! ' — Tostig,  raise 

my  head  1         \Falls  back  senseless. 
Har.  {raising  him.)  Let  Harold  serve 

for  Tostig  i 
Queen.  Harold  served 

Tostig  so  ill,  he  cannot  serve  for  Tostig  ! 
Ay,  raise  his  head,  for  thou  hast  laid  it 

low  1  [whom 
The  sickness  of  our  saintly  king,  for 
My  prayers  go  up  as  fast  as  my  tears  fall, 
I  well  believe,  hath  mainly  drawn  itself 
From  lack  of  Tostig— thou  hastbanish'd 

him.  [king  himself  ! 

Har.  Nay— but  the  Council,  and  the 
Queen.   Thou  hatest  him,  hatest  him. 


Har.  (coldly).   Ay— Stigand,  unriddle 
This  vision,  canst  thou  ? 
Stiff.  Dotage  I 

Edw.  {starting  up).     It  is  finish'd. 
1  have  built  the  Lord  a  house — the  Lord 
hath  dwelt  [house- 
In  darkness.    I  have  built  the  Lord  a 
Palms,  flowers,  pomegranates,  golden 
cherubim  [wall — 

With  twenty-cubit  wings  from  wall  to 
I  have  built  the  Lord  a  house — sing, 
Asaph  !  clash  [priest ! 

The  cymbal,  Heman  !  blow  the  trumpet, 
Fall,  cloud,  and  till  the  house— lo  !  my 
Jachin  and  Boaz  !—  [two  pillars, 

{Seeing  Harold  and  Gurth. 
Harold,  Gurth, — where  am  I  ? 
Where  is  the  charter  of  our  Westmin- 
ster ?  [thy  bed. 
Stig.   It  lies  beside  thee,  king,  uj^on 
Edw.   Sign,  sign  at  once— take,  sign 
it,  Stigand,  Aldred  I    [and  Leofwin, 
Sign  it,  my  good  son  Harold,  Gurth, 
Sign  it,  my  queen  1 
All.   We  have  sign'd  it. 
Edw.                       It  is  finish' d  ! 
The  kingliest  Abbey  in  all  Christian 
lands. 

The  lordliest,  loftiest  minster  ever  built 
To  Holy  Peter  in  our  English  isle  ! 
Let  me  be  buried  there,  and  all  our 
kings. 

And  all  our  just  and  wdse  and  holy  men 
That  shall  be  born  hereafter.   It  is  fin- 
ished! 

Hast  thou  had  absolution  for  thine  oath  ? 

[To  Harold. 

Har.    Stigand  hath  given  me  absolu- 
tion for  it.  [enough 
Edw.    Stigand    is    not  canonical 
To  save  thee  from  the  wTath  of  Norman 
Saints.  [Saints  of  England 

Stig.  Norman  enough  !  Be  there  no 
To  help  us  from  their  brethren  yonder  ? 

Edw.  Prelate, 
The  Saints  are  one,  but  those  of  Nor- 
manland  [Aldred. 
Are  mightier  than  our  own.   Ask  it  of 
[T'o  Harold. 

Aldred.   It  shall  be  granted  him,  my 
king  ;  for  he  [mother 
Who  vows  a  vow  to  strangle  his  own 
Is  guiltier  keeping  this,  than  breaking  it. 
Edw.   O  friends,  I  shall  not  overlive 
the  day 


534 

Stig.   Why  then  the  throne  is  empty. 

Who  inherits  ? 
For  tho'  we  be  not  bound  by  the  king's 

voice  [voice 
In  making  of  a  king,  yet  the  king's 
Is  much  toward  his  making.  Who  in- 
Edgar  the  Atheling  ?  [herits  ? 

Edw.  No,  no,  but  Harold. 

I  love  him  :  he  hath  served  me  :  none 

but  he  [on  him 

Can  rule  all  England.  Yet  the  curse  is 
For  swearing  falsely  by  those  blessed 

bones ; 

He  did  not  mean  to  keep  his  vow. 

Har.  Not  mean 

To  make  our  England  Norman. 

Edw.  There  spake  Godwin, 

Who  hated  all  the  Normans  ;  but  their 
Have  heard  thee,  Harold.  [Saints 

Editk.        Oh  !  my  lord,  my  king  ! 
He  knew  not  whom  he  sware  by. 

Edw.  Yea,  I  know 

He  knew  not,  but  those  heavenly  ears 
have  heard,  [another. 
Their  curse  is  on  him  ;  wilt  thou  bring 
Edith,  upon  his  head  '/ 

Edith.  No,  no,  not  1. 

Edw.    Why  then,  thou  must  not  wed 
him. 

Har.  Wherefore,  wherefore  ? 

Edw.    O  son,  when  thou  didst  tell  me 
of  thine  oath, 
I  sorrowed  for  my  random  promise  given 
To  yon  fox-lion.    I  did  not  dream  then 
I  should  be  king.— My  son,  the  Saints 

are  virgins ; 
They  love  the  white  rose  of  virginity, 
The  cold,  white  lily  blowing  in  her  cell  : 
I  have  beenmyself  a  virgin  ;  and  I  sware 
To  consecrate  my  virgin  nere  to  heaven — 
The  silent,  cloister'd,  solitary  life, 
A  life  of  life-long  prayer  agamst  the 
curse 

That  lies  on  thee  and  England. 
Har.  No,  no,  no. 

Edw.   Treble  denial  of  the  tongue  of 
flesh,  [have 
Like  Peter's  when  he  fell,  and  thou  wilt 
To  wail  for  it  like  Peter.    O  my  son  I 
Are  all  oaths  to  be  broken  then,  all 
promises  [heaven? 
Made  in  our  agony  for  help  from 
Son,  there  is  one  who  loves  thee  :  and  a 
wife. 

What  matters  who,  so  she  be  serviceable 


Act  ^ 

In  all  obedience,  as  mine  own  hath 
been: 

God  bless  thee,  wedded  daughter. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  the  Queen's  head. 

Queen.  Bless  thou  too 

That  brother  whom  I  love  beyond  the 
My  banish'd  Tostig.  [rest, 

Edw.   All  the  sweet  saints  bless  him  ! 
Spare  and  forbear  him,  Harold,  if  he 
comes !  [me,  Harold ! 

And  let  him  pass  unscathed ;  he  loves 
Be  kindly  to  the  Normans  left  among 
us,  [son,  swear 

Who  follow'd  me  for  love  !  and  dear 
When  thou  art  king,  to  see  my  solemn 
Accomplish'd  !  [vow 

Har.  Nay,  dear  lord,  for  I  have  sworn 
Not  to  swear  falsely  twice. 

Edw.  Thou  wilt  not  swear  ? 

Har.    I  cannot.  [curse, 

Edw.  Then  on  thee  remains  the 
Harold,  if  thou  embrace  her :  and  on 
Edith,  if  thou  abide  it,—  [thee, 

{'Ihe  King  swoons;  Edith  Jails  and 
kneels  by  the  couch. 

Stig.  He  hath  swoon'd  ! 

Death  ?  .  .  .  no,  as  yet  a  breath. 

Har.  Look  up  !  look  up  ! 

Edith  I  [begun 

AldJ^ed.  Confuse  her  not ;  she  hath 
Her  life-long  prayer  for  thee. 

Aid.  O  noble  Harold, 

I  would  thou  couldst  have  sworn. 

Har.  For  thine  own  pleasure  ? 

Aid.   No,  but  to  please  our  dying 
king,  and  those  [land.  Earl. 

Who  make  thy  good  their  own— all  Eng- 

Aldi'ed.   I  would  thou  couldst  have 
sworn.   Our  holy  king  [Church 
Hath  given  his  virgin  himb  to  Holy 
To  save  thee  from  the  curse. 

Har.  Alas  !  poor  man, 

His  promise  brought  it  on  me. 

Aldred.  O  good  son  ! 

That  knowledge  made  him  all  the  care- 
fuller  [might  glance 
To  find  a  means  whereby  the  curso 
From  thee  and  England. 

Har.  Father,  we  so  loved— 

Aldred.   The   more   the  love,  the 
mightier  is  the  prayer  ; 
The  more  the  love,  the  more  acceptable 
The  sacrifice  of  both  your  loves  to 
heaven.  [heaven ; 

No  sacrifice  to  heaven,  no  help  from 


HAROLD, 


Scene  2 


HAH  OLD. 


535 


That  runs  thro'  all  the  faiths  of  all  the 
world. 

And  nacrifice  there  must  be,  forthekin^ 
Is  holy,  and  hath  talk'd  with  God,  and 
seen  [heaven— 
A  shadowing  horror  ;  there  are  signs  in 
Har.    Your  comet  came  and  wenr. 
Aldred.  And  si^ns  on  earth  ! 

Knowest  thou  Senlac  hill  ? 

Har.  I  know  all  Sussex  ; 

A  good  entrenchment  for  a  perilous 
hour  !  [denly  I   There  is  one 

Aldred.   Pray  God  that  come  not  sud- 
Who  passing  by  that  hill  three  nights 
ago —  [with  it — 

He  shook  so  that  he  scarce  could  out 
Heard,  heard — 
Har.  The  wind  in  his  hair  ? 

Aldred.  A  ghostly  horn 

Blowing  continually,  and  faint  battle- 
hymns,  [of  men ; 
And  cries,  and  clashes,  and  the  groans 
And  dreadful  shadows  strove  upon  the 
hill,                          [the  marsh— 
And  dreadful  lights  crept  up  from  out 
Corpse-candles  gliding  over  nameless 
graves — 
Har.   At  Senlac  ? 
Aldred.  Senlac. 
Edw.  {waking).    Senlac  !  Sanguelac, 
The  Lake  of  Blood  ! 

Stig.      This  lightning  before  death 
Plays  on  the  word,— and  Normanizes 
too  1 

Har.    Hush,  father,  hush  ! 
Edw.  Thou  uncanonical  fool, 

Wilt  thou  play  with  the  thunder  ?  North 

and  South  [blown 
Thunder  together,  showers  of  blood  are 
Before  a  never-ending  blast,  and  hiss 
Against  the  blaze  they  cannot  quench— 

a  lake,  [—for  God 

A  sea  of  blood— we  aredrown'din  blood 
Has  filPd  the  quiver,  and  Death  has 

drawn  the  bow— 
Sanguelac  !  Sanguelac  !  the  arrow  !  the 

arrow !  [Dies. 
Stig.    It  is  the  arrow  of  death  in  his 

own  heart—  [King. 
And  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown  thee 

ScENB  11.—/^  the  Garden.    The  King's 
Housenear  London. 
Edith.    Crown 'd,  crown'd  and  lost, 
orown'd  King— and  lost  to  me  1 


Singing. 

Two  young  lovers  in  winter  weather^ 

None  to  guide  them, 
WaWdat  night  on  the  mibty  heather  ; 
Night,  as  black  as  a  raven's  feather ; 
Both  were  lost  and  found  together. 

None  beside  them. 
That   is  the  burthen  of  it— Jost  and 
found 

Together  in  the  cruel  river  Swale 
A  hundred  years  ago ;  and  there's  an- 
other, 

Lost,  lost,  the  light  of  day. 
To  which  the  lover  answers  lovingly 

I  am  beside  thee.'" 
Lost,  lost,  ive  have  lost  the  way. 

"  Love,  I  will  guide  thee.'''' 
Whither,  0  whither  f  into  the  river ^ 
Where  we  twomay  be  lost  together. 
And  lost  for  everf   "  Oh!  never,  oh! 
never, 

Tho'  we  be  lost  and  be  found  together.'' 
Some  think  they  loved  within  the  pale 

forbidden  [the  truth 

By  Holy  Church  :  but  who  shall  say  ? 
Was  lost  in  that  fierce  North,  where  they 

were  lost,  [Tostig  lost 

Where  all  good  things  are  lost,  where 
The  good  hearts  of  nis  people.   It  is 

Harold  ! 

Enter  Harold. 
Harold  the  King  ! 

Har.        Call  me  not  King,  but  Harold. 

Edith.   Nay,  thou  art  King  ! 

Har.  Thine,  thine,  or  King  or  churl ! 
My  girl,  thou  hast  been  weeping ;  turn 
not  thou 

Th}'^  face  away,  but  rather  let  me  be 
King  of  the  moment  to  thee,  and  com- 
mand [will  make 
That  kiss  my  due  when  subject,  which 
My  Kingship  kinglier  to  me  than  to 
reign 

King  of  the  world  without  it. 

Edith.  Ask  me  nor, 

Lest  I  should  yield  it,  and  the  second 
curse  [only 
Descend  upon  thine  head,  and  thou  be 
King  of  the  moment  over  England. 

Har.  Edith, 
Tho'  somewhat  less  a  king  to  my  true 
self 


53G 

Than  ere  they  crown'd  me  one,  for  I 
have  lost 

Somewhat  of  upright  stature  thro'  mine 
oath,  [thou 
Yet  thee  I  would  not  lose,  and  sell  not 
Our  hvmg  passion  for  a  dead  man's 
dream ;  [spake. 
Stigand  believed  he  knew  not  what  he 
Oh  God  !  I  cannot  help  it,  but  at  times 
Tliey  seem  to  me  too  narrow,  all  the 
faiths  [eye 
Of  this  grown  world  of  ours,  whose  baby 
Saw  them  sufflcient.   Fool  and  wise,  I 
fear  [light  !— 

This  curse,  and  scorn  it.   But  a  little 
And  on  it  falls  the  shadow  of  the  priest; 
Heaven  yield  us  more  !  for  better,  Wo- 
den, all  [Walhalla, 
Our  canceird  warrior-gods,  our  grim 
Eternal  war,  than  that  the  Saints  at 
peace  [be 
The  Holiest  of  our  Holiest  one  should 
This  William's  fellow  tricksters  ;— bet- 
ter die  [else 
Than  credit  this,  for  death  is  death,  or 
Lifts  us  beyond  the  lie.   Kiss  me— thou 
art  not 

A  holy  sister  yet,  my  girl,  to  fear 
There  might  be  more  than  brother  in  my 
kiss. 

And  more  than  sister  in  thine  own. 
Edith.  I  dare  not. 

Har.   Scared  by  the  church— 'Love 
for  a  wliole  life  long ' 
When  was  that  sung  ? 
Edith.       Here  to  the  nightingales. 
Har.   Their  anthems  of  no  church, 
how  sweet  they  are  I  [cross 
Nor  kingly  priest,  nor  priestly  king  to 
Their  billings  ere  they  nest. 

Edith.         They  are  but  of  spring. 
They  fly  the  winter  change— not  so  with 
us — 

No  wings  to  come  and  go. 

Har.  But  wing'd  souls  flying 

Beyond  all  change  and  in  tlic  eternal 

distance 
To  settle  on  the  Truth. 

Edith.  They  are  not  so  true, 

They  change  their  mates. 

Har.       Do  they  ?  I  did  not  know  it. 

Edith.   They  say  thou  art  to  wed  the 
Lady  Aldwyth. 

Har.   They  say,  they  say. 

Edith.  If  this  be  politic, 


Act^ 

And  well  for  thee  and  England— and  for 
Care  not  for  me  who  love  thee.  [her— 
Gurth  {calling).  Harold,  Harold  1 
Har.  The  voice  of  Gurth  !  {Enter 
Gurth.)  Good  even,my  good  brother  1 
Gurth.  Good  even ,  gentle  Edith . 
Edith.  Good  even,  Gurth. 

Gurth.   Ill  news  hath  come  !  Our 
hapless  brother,  Tostig—  [old 
He,  and  the  giant  King  of  Norway,  Har- 
Hardrada— Scotland,  Ireland,  Iceland, 
Orkney,  [field 
Are  landed  North  of  Hnmber,  and  in  a 
So  packt  with  carnage  that  the  dykes 
and  brooks  [have  overthrown 

Were  bridged  and  damm'd  with  dead, 
Morcar  and  Edwin. 

Har.        Well  then,  we  must  fight. 
H<  w  blows  the  wind  ? 

Gurth.  Against  St.  Yalery 

And  William. 
Har.   Well  then,  we  will  to  the  North. 
Gurth.    Ay,  but  worse  news  ;  this 
William  sent  to  Rome,       [Saints  : 
Swearing  thou  swarest  falsely  by  his 
The  Pope  and  that  Archdeacon  Hilde- 
brand  [him  back 

His  master,  heard  him,  and  have  sent 
A  holy  gonfamm,  and  a  blessed  hair 
Of  Peter,  and  all  France,  all  Burgundy, 
Poitou,  all  Christendom  is  raised  against 
thee  ;  [fight  for  thee. 

He  hath  cursed  thee,  and  all  those  who 
And  given  thy  realm  of  England  to  the 
bastard. 
Har.   Ha  !  ha  ! 

Edith.   Oh  !  laugh  not !  .  .  .  Strange 
and  ghastly  in  the  gloom  [cloud 
And  shadowing  of  this  double  thunder- 
That  lours  on  England— laughter  ! 

Har.  No,  not  strange  ! 

This  was  old  human  laughter  in  old 
Rome  [which  reigu'd 

Before  a  Pope  was  born,  when  that 
Caird  itself  God.— A  kindly  rendering 
Of  '  Render  unto  Caesar. '  .  .  .  The  Good 

Shepherd  ! 
Take  this,  and  render  that. 

Gurth.        They  have  taken  York. 
Har.   The  Lord  was  God  and  came 
as  man — the  Pope 
Is  man  and  comes  as  God.— York  taken? 

Gurth.  Y^a, 
Tostig  hath  taken  York  ! 
Har.  To  York  then.  Edith. 


HAROLD. 


HAROLD. 


537 


Hadst  thou  been  braver,  I  had  better 
braved  [that 
All — but  I  love  thee  and  thou  me — and 
Remains  beyond  all  chances  and  {ill 
And  that  thou  knowest.  [churches, 

Edith.  Ay,  but  take  back  thy  ring. 
It  burns  my  hand— a  curse  to  thee  and 
I  dare  not  wear  it.  [me. 

\Profers  Harold  the  ring,  which  he 
takes. 

Har.       But  I  dare.    God  with  thee  ! 

[Exeunt  Harold  and,  Gurth. 
Edith.   The  King  hath  cursed  him,  if 
he  marrj'me  ;  [or  no  ! 

The  Pope  hath  cursed  him,  marry  me 
God  help  me  I    I  know  nothing— can 
but  pray  [but  prayer. 

For  Harold— pray,  pray,  pray — no  help 
A  breath  that  fleets  beyond  this  iron 
world. 

And  touches  Him  that  made  it. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I.  —  In  Northnmbria.  Arch- 
bishop Aldred,  Morcar,  Edwin,  and 
Forces. 

Enter  Harold.  The  standard  of  the 
golden  Dragon  of  Wessex  preced- 
ing him. 

Har.   What !  are  thy  people  sullen 
from  defeat  ?  [Huniber, 
Our  Wessex  dragon  flies  beyond  the 
No  voice  to  greet  it. 

Edwin.         Let  not  our  great  king 
Believe  us  sullen — only  shamed  to  the 
quick  [bruised 
Before  the  king — as  having  been  so 
By  Harold,  king  of  Norway  ;  but  our 
help  [us,  thou  ! 

Is  Harold  king  of  England.  Pardon 
Our  silence  is  our  reverence  for  the 
king  I  [truth  be  gall, 

Har.   Earl  of  the  Mercians  !  if  the 
Cram  me  not  thou  with  honey,  when  our 
Needs  every  sting  to  save  it.  [good  hive 
Voices.  Aldwyth  !  Aldwyih  ! 

Har.   Why  cry  thy  people  on  thy  sis- 
ter's name.  [thro'  her  beauty, 
Mor.   She  hath  won  upon  our  people 
And  pleasantness  among  them. 

Voices.  Aldwyth,  Aldwyth ! 

Har.  They  shout  as  they  would  have 
her  for  a  queen. 


Mor.   She  hath  followed  with  our 

host,  and  suffered  all. 
Har.   What  would  ye,  men  ? 
Voice.   Our  old  Northumbrian  crown, 
And  kings  of  our  own  choosing. 

Har.  Your  old  crown 

Were  little  help  without  our  Saxon 
Against  Hardrada.  [carles 

Voice.  Little  !  we  are  Danes, 

Who  conquered  what  we  walk  on,  our 
own  fleld. 
Har.   They  have  been  plotting  here  ! 

[Aside. 

Voice.  He  calls  us  little  ! 

Har.   The  kingdoms  of  this  world 
began  with  little,  *  [hand 

A  hill,  a  fort,  a  city— that  reach'd  a 
Down  to  the  field  beneath  it,  '  Be  thou 
mine,'  [field 
Then  to  the  next,  *  Thou  also—'  if  the 
Cried  out  '  I  am  mine  own : '  another 
hill 

Or  fort,  or  city,  took  it,  and  the  first 
Fell,  and  the  next  became  an  Empire. 

Voice.  Yet 
Thou  art  but  a  West  Saxon  ;  we  are 
Danes  !  [English  ; 

Har.   My  mother  is  a  Dane  and  I  am 
There  is  a  pleasant  fable  in  old  books. 
Ye  take  a  stick,  and  break  it ;  bind  a 
score 

All  in  one  faggot,  snap  it  over  knee. 
Ye  cannot.  [true  I 

Voice.   Hear  King  Harold !  he  says 

Har.   Would  ye  be  Norsemen  ? 

Voices.  No  I 

Har.  Or  Norman  ? 

Voices.  No ! 

Har.   Snap  not  ihe  faggot-band  then. 

Voice.  That  is  true  ! 

Voice.   Ay,  but  thou  art  not  kingly, 
only  grandson 
To  Wulfnoth,  a  poor  cow-herd. 

Har.  This  old  Wulfnoth 

Would  take  me  on  his  knees  and  tell  me 

Of  Alfred  and  of  Athelstan  the  Great 
Who  drove  you  Danes  ;  and  yet  he  held 

that  Dane, 
Jute,  Angle,  Saxon,  were  or  should  be  all 
One  England,  for  this  cow-herd,  like  my 

father,  [the  throne, 

Who  shook  the  Norman  scoundrels  oft 
Had  in  him  kingly  thoughts— a  king  of 


538 


HAROLD. 


Act  4 


Not  made  but  bom,  like  the  great  king 
A  light  among  the  oxen.  [of  all, 

Yoice.  That  is  true  ! 

Voice.   Ay,  and  I  love  him  now,  for 
mine  own  father 
Was  great,  and  cobbled. 

Yoice.  Thou  art  Tostig's  brother, 
Who  wastes  the  land. 

Har.         This  brother  comes  to  save 
Your  land  from  waste  ;  I  saved  it  once 
before,  [hence. 
For  when  your  people  banish'd  Tostig 
And  Edward  would  have  sent  a  host 
against  you,  [king 
Then  I,  who  h)ved  my  brother,  bade  the 
Who  doted  on  him  sanction  your  decree 
Of  Tostig's  banishment,  and  choice  of 
Morcar, 

To  help  the  realm  from  scattering. 

Ymce.  King  !  thy  brother, 

If  one  may  dare  to  speak  the  truth,  was 
wrong'd,  [against  him 

Wild  was  he,  born  so  :  but  ihe  plots 
Had  madden' d  tamer  men. 

Moi\  Thou  art  one  of  those 

Who  brake  into  Lord  Tostig's  treasure- 
house 

And  slew  two  hundred  of  his  following. 
And  now,  when  Tostig  hath  come  back 
with  power, 
Are  frighted  back  to  Tostig. 
Old  Thane.   Ugh  !    Plots  and  feuds  ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday.   Can  ye 
not  Alfgar, 
Be  brethren  ?   Godwin  still  at  feud  with 
And  Alfgar  hates  King  Harold.  Plots 

and  feuds  ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday  ! 

Har.  Old  man,  Harold 

Hates  nothing  ;  not  his  fault,  if  our  two 
Be  less  than  brothers.  [houses 
Yoices.     Aldwyth,  Harold,  Aldwytli ! 
Har.   Again  I      Moicar  !      Edwin  1 

What  do  they  mean  ? 
Edwin.   So  the  good  king  would 
deign  to  lend  an  ear  [perchance— 
Not  overscornful,  we  might  chance — 
To  guess  their  meaning. 

Mor.      Thine  own  meaning,  Harold, 
To  make  all,  England  one,  to  clo.se  all 
feuds,  [may  ri-e 

Mixirig  our  bloods,  that  thence  a  king 
Half -God win  and  half- Alfgar,  one  to 
rule  [quarrel. 
All  England  beyond  question,  beyond 


Har.   Who  sow'd  this  fancy  here 

among  the  people  ? 
Mor.    Who  knows  what  sows  itself 
among  the  people  ? 
A  goodly  flower  at  times. 

Har.  The  Queen  of  Wales  ? 

Why,  Morcar,  it  is  all  but  duty  in  her 
To  hate  me  ;  I  have  heard  she  hates  me. 

Mor.  No  I 

For  I  can  swear  to  that,  but  cannot 
swear  [Norsemen, 
That  these  will  follow  thee  against  the 
If  thou  deny  them  this. 

Har.  Morcar  and  Edwin, 

When  will  ye  cease  to  plot  against  my 
house  ?  [that  we,  who  know 

Edwin.   The  king  can  scarcely  dream 
His  prowess  in  the  mountains  of  the 
West,  [North. 
Should  care  to  plot  against  him  in  the 
Mor.    Who  dares  arraign  us,  king,  of 

such  a  plot  ? 
Har.   Ye  heard  one  witness  even  now. 
Mor.  The  craven  ! 

There  is  a  faction  risen  again  for  Tostig, 
Since  Tostig  came  with  Norway — fright 
not  love.  [yield, 
Har.   Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye,  if  I 
Follow  against  the  Norseman  ? 
Mor.  Surely,  surely  ! 

Har.   Morcar  and  Edwin,   will  ye 
upon  oath, 
Help  us  against  the  Norman  ? 

Mor,  With  good  will ; 

Yea,  take  the  Sacrament  upon  it,  king. 
Har.    Where  is  thy  sister  ? 
Mor.  Somewhere  hard  at  hand. 

Call  and  she  comes. 

lOn.e  goes  out,,  then  enter  Aldwyth. 
Har.   I  doubt  not  but  thou  knowest 
Why  thou  art  summoned. 

Aid.  Why  ?— I  stay  with  these, 

Lest  thy  fierce  Tostig  spy  me  out  alone, 
And  flay  me  all  alive. 

Har.  Canst  thou  love  one 

Who  did  discrown  thme  husband,  un- 

queen  thee  ? 
Didst  thou  not  love  thine  husband  ? 

Aid.  Oil  I  my  lord. 

The  nimble,   wild,  red,  wiry,  savaga 
king — 

That  was,  my  lord,  a  match  of  policy. 

Har.  Was  it  ? 

I  knew  him  \)rave  ;  he  loved  his  land  % 
he  fain 


Scene  2 

Had  made  her  great :  his  finger  on  her 
harp 

<I  heard  him  more  than  once)  had  in  it 
Wales.  [been  his, 

Her  floods,  her  woods,  her  hills  :  had  1 
1  had  been  all  Welsh. 

Aid.         Oh,  ay— all  Welsh— and  yet 
I  saw  thee  drive  him  up  his  hills— and 
women  [more  ; 

Cling  to  the  conquered  if  they  love,  the 
If  not,  they  cannot  hate  the  conqueror. 
We  never — oh  I  good  Morcar,  speak  for 
His  conqueror  conquered  Aldwyth.  [us, 

liar.  Goodly  news  ! 

Mor.   Doubt  it  not  thou  !  fcsince  Grif- 

fyth's  head  w;is  sent 
To  Edward,  she  hatli  said  it. 

Har.  I  had  rather 

She  would  have  loved  her  husband. 

Aldwyth,  Aldwyth,    [where  I  love  ? 
Canst  thou  love  me,  thou  knowing 
Aid.    I  can,  my  lord,  for  mine  own 
sake,  for  thine,  [who  flutters 

For  England,  for  thy  poor  white  dove. 
Between  thee  and  the  porch,  but  then 

would  find 
Her  nest  within  the  cloister,  and  he  still. 
Har.    Canst  thou  love  one,  who  can- 
not love  again  ?  [answer  love. 
Aid.    Full  hope  have  I  that  love  will 
Har.    Then  in  the  name  of  the  great 
God,  so  be  it  !  [the  hosts. 
Come,  Aldred,  join  our  hands  before 
That  all  may  see. 

[Aldredjoi/?*'  the  hands  of  Harold  and 

Aldwyth  and  blesses  them. 
Voices.    Harold,  Harold  and  Aldwyth ! 
Har.    Set  forth  our  golden  Dragon,  let 
him  flap 

The  wings  that  beat  down  Wales  ! 
Advance  our  Standard  of  the  Warrior, 
Dark  among  gems  and  gold  ;  and  thou, 

brave  banner, 
Blaze  like  a  night  of  fatal  stars  on  those 
Who  read  their  doom  and  die. 
Where  lie  the  Norsemen  ?  on  the  Der- 

went  ?  ay 
At  Stamford-bridge. 

Morcar,  collect  thy  men  ;  Edwin,  my 

friend— 
Thou  lingerest. — Gurth,— 
Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me  in 

dreams—  [beard— 
The  rosy  face  and  long  down-silvering 
He  told  me  1  should  conquer  : — 
15 


53f 

I  am  no  woman  to  put  faith  in  dreams. 

{  To  his  army.) 
Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me  in 
dreams. 

And  told  me  we  should  conquer. 

Voices.  Forward  !    Forward  I 

Harold  and  Holy  Cross  I 

Aid.  The  day  is  won  I 

Scene  11.— A  Plain.  Before  the  Bat- 
tle of  Stamford-bridge.  Harold  and 
his  Guard. 
Har.  Who  is  it  comes  this  way  ? 
Tostig  ?  {Enter  Tostig  with  a  small 
force.)  O  brother. 
What  art  thou  doing  here  ? 

Tostig.  I  am  foraging 

For  Norway^  s  army. 

Har.       1  could  take  and  slay  thee. 
Thou  art  in  arms  against  us. 

Tostig.  Take  and  slay  me, 

For  Edward  loved  me. 
Har.     Edward  bade  me  spare  thee. 
Tostig    I  hate  King  Edward  for  he 
joiri'd  with  thee  [me,  I  say, 

To  drive  me  outlawed.  Take  and  slay 
Or  I  shall  count  thee  fool. 

Har.  Take  thee,  or  free  thee. 

Free  thee  or  slay  tliec,  Norway  will  have 
war  ;  [for  Norway. 

No  m;in  would  strike  with  Tosiig,  save 
Thou  art  notliing  in  thine  England,  save 
for  Norway  [thou  here. 

Who  loves  not  thee  but  war.  What  dost 
Trampling  thy  mother's  bosom  into 
blood  ?  [with  such  bitterness. 

Tostig.    She  hath  wean'd  me  from  it 
I  come  for  mine  own  Earldom,  my 
North umbria  ;  [house. 
Thou  hast  given  it  to  the  enemy  of  our 
Har.    Norihumbria  threw  thee  off", 
she  will  not  have  thee,    [ing  crime  ! 
Thou  hast  misused  her  :  and,  O  crown- 
Hast  murder'd  thine  own  guest,  the  son 
Gamel,  at  thine  own  hearth.      [of  Orm, 

Tostig.  The  slow,  fat  fool ! 

He  drawPd  and  prated  so,  I  smote  hml 
I  knew  not  what  I  did.  [suddenly, 

Har.  Come  back  tons. 

Know  what  thou  dost,  and  we  may  find 
for  thee. 

So  thou  be  chasten'd  by  thy  banishment. 
Some  easier  Earldom. 

Tostig.       What  for  Norway  then  ? 
He  looks  for  land  among  you,  he  and  his. 


HAROLD. 


540 

Har.    Seven  feet  of  English  land,  or 
Seeing  he  is  a  giant,    [something  more, 
Tostig.  O  brother,  brother, 

0  Harold— 

Har.  Nay  th  en  come  thou  back  tons! 
Tostig.    Never  shall  any  man  say  that 

I,  that  Tostig  [North 
Conjured  the  mightier  Harold  from  his 
To  do  the  battle  for  me  here  in  England, 
Then  left  him  for  the  meaner  !  thee  !— 
Thou  hast  no  passion  for  the  House  of 

Godwin —  king— 
Thou  hast  but  cared  to  make  thyself  a 
Thou  hast  sold  me  for  a  cry.— 
Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in  the 

Council—  [thee. 

1  hate  thee,  and  despise  thee,  and  defy 
Farewell  for  ever  !  [Exit. 

Har.  On  to  Stamford-bridge  I 

Scene  HI.  —After  the  battle  of  Stam- 
ford-bridge.  Banquet.  Harold  a/ic^ 
Aldwyth.    Gurth,  Leofwin,  Morcar, 
Edwin,  a/? c?oi!/i6r  Earls  and  Thanes. 
Voices.   Hail  !    Harold  !    Aldwyth  t 

hail,  bridegroom  and  bride  ! 
Aldwyth  {talking  with  Harold). 
Answer  them  thou !  [the  wines 

Is  this  our  mamage-banquet  ?  Would 
Of  wedding  had  been  dash"d  into  the 
cups  [o-lory 
Of  victory,  and  our  marriage  ana  thy 
Been  drunk  together  !  these  poor  hands 
but  sew,  [man's  to  iiave  held 

Spin,  broider— would  that  they  were 
Tiie  battle-axe  by  thee  ! 

Har.  There  teas  a  moment 

When  being  forced  aloof  from  all  my 
guard,  [men 
And  striking  at  Hardrada  and  his  mad- 
I  had  wish'd  for  any  weapon. 
Aid.  Why  art  thou  sad  ? 

Har.    I  have  lost  the  boy  who  play  VI 
at  ball  with  me,  [this 
With  whom  I  fought  another  fight  than 
Of  Stamford-bridge. 

Aid.  Ay  I  ay!  thy  victories 

Over  our  own  poor  Wales,  when  at  thy 
He  conquered  with  thee.  [side 

Har.  No— the  childish  fist 

That  cannot  strike  again. 

Aid.  Thou  art  too  kindly. 

Why  didst  thou  let  so  many  Norsemen 
hence  ?  [pirate  hides 

Thy  fierce  forekings  had  clench'd  their 


Act  4 

To  the  bleak  church  doors,  like  kites 

upon  a  barn.  [thee  why  ? 

Har.    Is  there  so  great  a  need  to  tell 
Aid.   Yea,  am  I  not  thy  wife  ? 
Voices.  Hail,  Harold,  Aldwyth  ! 

Bridegroom  and  bride  ! 
Aid.       Answer  them  !   [  To  Harold.) 
Harold  (To  all).    Earls  and  Thanes  ! 
Full  thanks  for  your  fair  greeting  of 

my  bride  !  [the  day. 

Earls,  Thanes,  and  all  our  countrymen  ! 
Our  day  beside  the  Derwent  will  not 

shine  [hours 
Less  than  a  star  among  the  goldenest 
Of  Alfred,  or  of  Edward  his  great  son, 
Or  Athelstan,  or  English  Ironside 
Who  fought  with  Knut,  or  Knut  who 

coming  Dane  [king 
Died  English.  Every  man  about  his 
Fought  like  a  king ;  the  king  like  his 

own  man. 
No  better  ;  one  for  all,  and  all  for  one, 
One  soul !  and  therefore  have  we  shat- 
tered back  [yet 
The  hugest  wave  from  Norseland  ever 
Surged  on  us,  and  our  battle-axes  broken 
The  Raven's  wing,  and  dumb'd  his  car 

rion  croak  [gone— 
From  the  gray  sea  for  ever.  Many  are 
Drink  to  the  dead  who  died  for  us,  the 

living  [happier  lived. 

Who  fought  and  would  have  died,  but 
If  happier  be  to  live ;  they  both  have 

life  {voice 
In  the  large  mouth  of  England,  till  her 
Die  witu  The  world.    Hail— hail  ! 
3Ior.    May  all  invaders  perish  like 

Hardrada!  [ft Harold. 

All  traitors  fail  like  Tostig  !  [All  drink. 
Aid.  Thy  cujd's  full  ! 

Har.    I  saw  the  hand  of  Tostig  cover 

it.  [him 
Our  dear,  dead,  traitor-brother,  Tostig, 
Reverently  we  buried.    Friends,  had  f 

been  here,  [hold 
M^thout  too  large  self-lauding  I  must 
The  sequel  had  been  other  than  his 

league  [be  with  him  1 

With  Norway,  and  this  battle.  Peace 
He  was  not  of  the  worst.    If  there  be 

those  [me— 
\t  banquet  in  this  hall,  and  hearing 
For  there  be  those  I  fear  who  prick'd 

the  lion  [ish  blood 

To  make  him  spring,  that  sight  of  Dan* 


HAROLD. 


Scene  3 

Might  serve  an  end  not  English— peace  | 

be  with  them  [what 
Likewise,  if  they  can  be  at  peace  with 
God  gave  us  to  divide  us  from  the  wolf  ! 
Aid.  {aside  to  Harold).  Make  not  our 

Morcar  sullen  :  it  is  not  wise. 
Har.   Hail  to  the  living  who  fought, 

the  dead  who  fell  ! 
Vcices.    Hail,  hail  ! 
1  Thane.    How    ran    that  answer 
which  King  Harold  gave 
To  his  dead  namesake,  when  he  ask'd 
for  England  ? 
Leof.    '  Seven  feet  of  English  earth, 
or  something  more, 
Seeing  he  is  a  giant ! ' 

1  Thane.         Then  for  the  bastard 
Six  feet  and  nothing  more  ! 

Leof.  Ay,  but  belike 

Thou  hast  not  learnt  his  measure. 

1  Thane.  By  St.  Edmund 

1  over-measure  him.  Sound  sleep  to  the 
man  [dawn ! 

Here  by  dead  Norway  without  dream  or 

2  Thane.   What  is  he  bragging  still 
that  he  will  come         [under  him  ? 

To  thrust  our  Harold's  throne  from 
My  nurse  would  tell  me  of  a  molehill 
crying  for  me  ! ' 

To  a  mountain  '  Stand  aside  and  room 

1  Thane.   Let  him  come !   let  him 
come.  Here's  to  him,  sink  or  swim! 

[^Dinnks. 

2  Thane.   God  sink  him  ! 

1  Thane.   Cannot  hands  which  had 
the  strength  [shores, 
To  shove  that  stranded  iceberg  off  our 
And  send  the  shattered  North  again  to 
sea,  [nanburg 
Scuttle  his  cockle-shell  ?  What's  Bru- 
To  Stamford-bridge  ?  a  war-crash,  and 
so  hard,  [Thor— 
So  loud,  that,  by  St.  Dunstan,  old  St. 
By  God,  we  thought  him  dead — but  our 
old  Thor  [and  came 

^leard  his  own  thunder  ngain,  and  woke 
Among  us  again,  and  mark'd  the  sons  of 
those  [the  North  : 

Who  made  this  Britain  England,  break 
Mark'd  how  the  ivar-axe  swung, 
Heard  how  the  war-horn  sang, 
Marlc'd  how  the  spear-head  sprang, 
Heard  how  the  shield-wall  rang, 
Iron  on  iron  clang, 
Anvil  on  hammer  bang— 


541 

2  Thane.   Hammer  on  anvil,  hammer 
on  anvil.    Old  dog. 
Thou  art  drunk,  old  dop  !  [thee ! 

1  Thane.   Too  drunk  to  fight  with 

2  Thane.    Fight  thou  with  thine  own 
double,  not  with  me, 

Keep  that  for  Norman  William  ! 
1  Thane.         Down  with  William  ! 

3  Thane.   The  washerwoman's  brat ! 

4  Thane.       The  tanner's  bastard  I 

5  Thane.   The  Falaise  by  blow  ! 

Enter  a  Thane,  from  Pevense3%  spat- 
tered with  mud. 
Har.  Ay,  but  what  late  guest, 

As  hag^vard  as  a  fast  of  forty  days. 
And  caked  and  plaster'd  with  a  hundred 
mires. 

Hath  stumbled  on  our  cups  ? 

Thane  from  Pevensey.   My  lord  the 
King  !  [changed— 
William  the  Norman,  for  the  wind  had 
Har.    I  felt  it  in  the  middle  of  that 
fierce  fi^ht  [ed,  ha  ? 

At  Stamford-bridsre.  William  hath  land- 
Thane  from  Pevensey.   Landed  at 
Pevensey— I  am  from  Pevensey — 
Hath  wasted  all  the  land  at  Pevensey — 
Hath  harried  mine  own  cattle— God  con- 
found him !  [^ej'— 
I  have  ridden  night  and  day  from  Peven- 
A  thousand  ships,  a  hundred  thousand 

men- 
Thousands  of  horses,  like  as  many  lions 
Neighing  and  roaring  as  they  leapt  to 
land —  [broken  bread  ? 

Har.   How  oft  in  coming  hast  thou 
Thane  from  Pevensey.    Some  thrice, 
or  so. 

Har.         Bring  not  thy  hollowness 
On  our  full  feast.   Famine  is  fear,  were 

it  but  [and  eat, 

Of  being  starved.  Sit  down,  sit  down 
And,  wiien  again  red-blooded,  speak 

again ;  [Aside. 
The  men  that  guarded  England  to  the 

South  '    [power  mine 

Were  scattered  to  the  harvest  ...  No 
To  hold  their  force  together  .  .  .  Many 

are  fallen  [stupid-sure 
At  Stamford-bridge.  .  .  .  the  people 
Sleep  like  their  swine.  .  .  .  in  South  and 
I  could  not  be.  [North  at  once 

[Aloud, 

Gurth,  Leof  win,  Morcar,  Edwin  1 


HAROLD. 


542 

{Pointing  to  revellers.)  The  curse  of 
England  I  these  are  drowned  in 
wassail,  [their  wines  ! 

And  cannot  see  the  world  but  thro' 
Leave  them !  and  thee  too,  Aldwyth, 
must  I  leave —  [moon  ! 

Harsh  is  the  news  !  hard  is  our  honey- 
Thy  pardon.   {Turning  round  to  his 
attendants.)    Break  the  banquet 
up  ...  Ye  four  !  [news, 
And  thou,  my  carrier-pigeon  of  black 
Cram  thy  crop  full,  but  come  when  thou 
art  calPd.  {Exit  Harold. 

ACT  V. 

Scene  l.—A  tent  on  a  mound,  from 
which  can  be  seen  the  field  of  ^eiilsLC. 
Harold,  sitting;  by  him  standing 
Hugh  Margot  the  Monk,  Gurth, 
Leofwin. 

Jlar.   Refer  my  cause,  my  crown  to 
Rome  !  .  .  .  The  wolf  [all. 
Mudded  the  brook,  and  predetermined 
Monk,  [stant  '  No  ' 

Thou  hast  said  thy  say,  and  had  my  con- 
For  all  but  instant  battle.   I  hear  no 
more.  [time.  Arise, 

Mar.   Hear  me  again — for  the  las-t 
Scatter  thy  people  home,  descend  the 
hill, 

Ln y  hands  of  full  allegiance  in  thy  Lord's 
And  crave  his  mercy,  for  the  Holy  Fa- 
ther [the  Norman. 
Hath  given  this  realm  of  England  to 
liar.   Then  for  the  last  time,  monk, 

I  ask  again  [Father 
Wlien  had  the  Lateran  and  the  Holy 
To  do  with  England's  choice  of  her  own 

king  ?  [drew  to  the  East 

Mar.  Earl,  the  first  Christian  Ciesar 
To  leave  the  Pope  dominion  in  the 

West.  [West. 
He  gave  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 
Har,   So  !— did  he  ?— Earl— I  have  a 

mind  to  play  [tongue. 
The  William  with  thine  eyesight  and  thy 
Earl — ay— thou  art  but  a  messenger  of 

William.  [with  thee  I 

I  am  weary— go :  make  me  not  wroth 
Mar.   Mock-king,  I  am  the  messenger 

of  God,  [Tekel  I 

His  Norman  Daniel  !  Mene,  Mene, 
Is  thy  wrath  Hell,  that  I  should  spare  to 

cry, 


Act  5 

Yon  Heaven  is  wroth  with  thee  f  Hear 

me  again  I 
Our  Saints  have  moved  the  Church  that 

moves  the  world,  [heard— 
And  all  the  Heavens  and  very  God  :  they 
They  know  King  Edward's  promise  and 

thine — thine. 
Har.   Should  they  not  know  free 

England  crowns  herself  ?  [promise  ? 
Not  know  that  he  nor  I  had  power  to 
Not  know  that  Edward  cancell'd  his 

own  promise  ?  [juggler,  (rising) 
And  for  my  part  therein— Back  to  that 
Tell  him  the  Saints  are  nobler  than  he 

dreams,  [Saints, 
Tell  him  that  God  is  nobler  than  the 
And  tell  him  we  stand  armed  on  Sen  lac 
And  bide  the  doom  of  God.  [Hill, 

31ar.  Hear  it  thro'  me. 

The  realm  for  which  thou  art  forsworn 

IS  cursed,  [is  cursed. 

The  babe  enwomb'd  and  at  the  breast 
The  corpse  thou  whelmest  with  thine 

earth  is  cursed,  [cursed, 
The  soul  w^ho  fighteth  on  thy  side  is 
The  seed  thou  sowest  in  thy  field  is 

cursed,  [field  is  cursed, 

The  steer  wherewith  thou  plowest  thy 
The  fowl  that  fleeth  o'er  thy  field  is 
And  thou,  usurper,  liar—  [cursed, 
Har.  Out,  beast  monk  I 

[Lifting  his  hand  to  sbike  him.  Gurth 

stoj)s  the  blow. 
I  ever  hated  monks. 

Mar.  I  am  but  a  voice 

Among  you  :  murder,  martyr  me  if  ye 

will —  [silent,  selfless  man 

Ear.  Thanks,  Gurth  I  The  simple. 
Is  worth  a  world  of  tonguesters.  {7'o 

Margot.)   Get  thee  gone  1 
He  means  the  thing  he  says.   See  him 

out  safe  !  [as  fire  with  curses. 

Leof.  He  hath  blown  himself  as  icU 
An  honest  fool  1   Follow  me,  honest 

fool,  [foil;, 
But  if  thou  blurt  thy  curse  among  our 
I  know  not— I  may  give  that  egg-bald 
The  tap  that  silences.  [head 
Har.  See  him  out  safe. 

[Exevni  Leofwin  and  Margot. 
Gurth.   Thou  hast  lost  thine  even 

temper,  brother  Harold  ! 
Har.   Gurth,  w^hen  I  past  by  Wal- 

tham,  my  foundation  [themselves, 
For  men  who  serve  their  neighbor,  not 


HAROLD, 


Scene  1 

I  cast  me  down  prone,  praying ;  and, 
when  I  rose  [lean'd 
They  told  me  that  the  Holy  Rood  had 
And  bow'd  above  me ;  whether  that 
which  held  it  [bound 
Had  weakened,  and  the  Rood  itself  were 
To  that  necessity  which  binds  us  down; 
Whether  it  bow'd  at  all  but  in  their 
fancy ; 

Or  if  it  bow'd,  whether  it  symboPd  ruin 
Or  gloiy,  who  shall  tell  ?  but  they  were 
And  somewhat  sadden'd  me.  [sad 

Gurth.  Yet  if  a  fear, 

Or  shadow  of  a  fear,  lest  the  strange 

Saints  [power  to  balk 

By  whom  thou  swarest,  should  have 
Thy  puissance  in  this  fight  with  him, 

who  made  [not  sworn — 

And  heard  thee  swear — ^brother—/  have 
If  the  king  fall,  may  not  the  kingdom 

fall? 

But  if  I  fall,  I  fall,  and  thou  art  king  ; 
And,  if  I  win,  I  win,  and  thou  art  king  ; 
Draw  thou  to   London,  there  make 
strength  to  breast  [me. 
Whatever  chance,  but  leave  this  day  to 
Leof.  (entering).   And  waste  the  land 
about  thee  as  thou  goest. 
And  be  thy  hand  as  winter  on  the  field, 
To  leave  the  foe  no  forage. 

Har,  Noble  Gurth  ! 

Best  son  of  Godwin  !   If  I  fall,  I  fall— 
The  doom  of  God  I   How  should  the 
people  fight  [thou  mad  ? 

When  the  king  flies  ?  And,  Leofwin,  art 
How  should  the  King  of  England  waste 
the  fields  [glance  yet 

Of  England,  his  o^vn   people?  —  No 
Of  the  Northumbrian  helmet  on  the 
heath  ?  [the  heath, 

Leof.   No,  but  a  shoal  of  wives  upon 
And  some  one  saw  thy  willy-nilly  nun 
Vying  a  tress  against  our  golden  fern. 
Har,  Vying  a  tear  with  our  cold 
dews,  a  sigh  [her  be  fetch'd. 

With  these  low-moaning  heavens.  Let 
We  have  parted  from  our  wife  without 
reproach,  [tices ; 

Tho'  we  have  dived  thro'  all  her  prac- 
And  that  is  well. 

Leof.  I  saw  her  even  now : 

She  hath  not  left  us. 
Ear.         Nought  of  Morcar  then  ? 
Qurth.   Nor  seen,  nor  heard  ;  thine, 
William's  or  his  own 


543 

As  wind  blows,  or  tide  flows  :  belike  h« 
watches, 

If  this  war-storm  in  one  of  its  rough 
rolls  [land. 
Wash  up  that  old  crown  of  Northumber- 
Har.   I  married  her  for  Morcar— a 
sin  against  [seems, 
The  truth  of  love.   Evil  for  good,  it 
Is  oft  as  childless  of  the  good  as  evil 
For  evil.  [times 
Leof.   Good  for  good  hath  borne  at 
A  bastard  false  as  William. 

Har.  Ay,  if  Wisdom 

Pair'd  not  with  Good.  But  I  am  some- 
what worn,  [God. 
A  snatch  of  sleep  w^ere  like  the  peace  of 
Gurth,  Leofwin,  go  once  more  about  ihe 
hill—  [lac, 
What  did  the  dead  man  call  it — Sangue- 
The  lake  of  blood  ? 

Leof.     A  lake  that  dips  in  William 
As  well  as  Harold. 

Har.         Like  enough.   I  have  seen 
The  trenches  dug,  the  pahsades  up- 
rear'd  [wands  ; 

And  wattled  thick  with  ash  and  willow- 
Yea,  wrought  at  them  myself.  Go  round 
•    once  more  ;  [man  horse 

See  all  be  sound  and  whole.  No  Nor- 
Can  shatter  England,  standing  shield  by 
Tell  that  again  to  all.  [shield  ; 

Gurth.  I  will,  good  brother. 

Har.   Our  guardsman  hath  but  toiPd 
his  hand  and  foot 
I  hand,  foot,  heart  and  head.  Some 
wine  !    {One pours  wine  into  a  gob- 
let^ which  he  hands  to  Harold.) 

Too  much  1 
What  ?  we  must  use  our  battle-axe  to. 

day.  [we  came  in  ? 

Our  guardsmen  have  slept  well,  since 
Leof.   Ay,  slept  and  snored.  Your 
second-sighted  man  [king, 
That  scared  tlie  dying  conscience  of  the 
Mislieard  their  snores  for  groans.  They 
are  up  again  [burg 
And  chanting  that  old  song  of  Brunan- 
Where  England  conquered. 

Har.  That  is  well.  The  Norman, 
What  is  he  doing  ? 

Leof.  Praying  for  Normandy  ; 

Our  scouts  have  heard  the  tinkle  of  their 
bells.  [for England  too! 

Har.  And  our  old  songs  are  prayers 
But  by  all  Saints — 


HAROLD. 


544 

Leof.  Barring  the  Norman  ! 

liar.  Nay. 
Were  the  great  trumpet  blowing  dooms- 
day dawn,  [man  moves— 
I  needs  must  rest.    Call  when  the  Nor- 
[Exeunt  all^  hut  Harold. 
No  horse — thousands  of    horses — our 

shield  wall- 
Wall— break  it  not — break  not — break — 

Vision  of  Edw.    Son  Harold,  I  thy 
king,  who  came  before  [ford-bridge 
To  tell  thee  thou  should'st  win  at  Stam- 
Come  yet  once  more,  from  where  I  am 
at  peace, 

Because  I  loved  thee  in  my  mortal  day. 
To  tell  thee  tliou  shalt  die  on  Senlac 
isanguelac  !  [hill — 

Vision  of  Wulf  .   O  brother,  from  my 

ghastly  oubliette 
I  send  my  voice  across  the  narrow  seas- 
No  more,  no  more,  dear  brother,  never- 
Sanguelac  I  [more— 
Vision  of  Tostig.    O  brother,  most 

unbrother  like  to  me,  [life. 
Thou  gavest  tny  voice  against  me  in  my 
I  give  my  voice  against  thee  from  the 
Sanguelac  !  [grave— 
Vision  of  Norman  Saints.   O  hapless 

Harold  !  King  but  for  an  hour  I 
Thou  swarest  falsely  by  our  blessed 

bones,  heaven ! 

We  give  our  voice  against  thee  out  of 
Sanguelac  I  Sanguelac  I  The  arrow,  the 

arrow  1 

Har.   {starting  up  battle-axe  in  hand) . 

Away  I 

My   battle-axe   against  your  voices. 

Peace  1  [shall  die — 

The  king's  last  word—'  the  arrow  ! '  I 
I  die  for  England  then,  who  lived  for 

England— 
What  nobler  ?  men  must  die. 
I  cannot  fall  into  a  falser  world — 
I  have  done  no  man  wrong.  Tostig, 
Art  thoa  so  anger'd?         [poor  brother, 
Fain  had  I  kept  thine  earldom  in  thy 

hands  [wrench'd 
Save  for  thy  wild  and  violent  will  that 
All  hearts  of  freemen  from  thee.  I  could 

do 

No  other  than  this  way  advise  the  king 
Against  the  race  of  Godwin.   Is  it  pos- 
sible [earthly  hates 
That  mortal  men  should  bear  their 


Act  5 

Into  yon  bloodless  world,  and  threaten 
ns  thence  [art  revenged — 

UnschooFd  of  Death  ?  Thus  then  thou 
I  left  our  England  naked  to  the  South 
To  meet  thee  in  the  North.  The  Norse- 
man's raid  [Godwin 
Hath  helpt  the  Norman,  and  the  race  of 
Hath  ruin'd  Godwin.  No— our  waking 
thoughts 

Suffer  a  stormless  shipwreck  in  the  pool* 
Of  sullen  slumber,  and  arise  again 
Disjointed  :  only  dreams— where  mine 

own  self  [a  spark 

Takes  part  against  myself  !  Why  ?  For 
Of  self-disdam  bom  in  me  when  I  sware 
Falsely  to  him,  the  falser  Norman,  over 
His  gilded  ark  of  mummy-saints,  by 

whom 

I  knew  not  that  I  sware,— not  for  my- 
For  England— yet  not  wholly —    [self — 

Enter  Edith. 

Edith,  Edith, 
Get  thou  into  my  cloister  as  the  king 
Wiird  it :  be  safe  :  the  perjury-monger- 

ing  Count 
Hath  made  too  good  an  use  of  Holy 
Church 

To  break  her  close  1    There  the  great 

God  of  truth  [devil 
Fill  all  thine  hours  with  peace  ! — A  lying 
Hath  iiaunted  me— mine  oath— my  wife 

— I  fain  [could  not : 

Had  made  my  marriage  not  a  lie  ;  I 
Thou  art  my  bride  1  and  thou  in  after 

years  [mine 
Praying  perchance  for  this  poor  soul  of 
In  cold,  white  cells  beneath  an  icy 

moon—  [land, 
This  memory  to  thee  !— and  this  toEng- 
My  legacy  of  war  against  the  Pope 
From  child  to  child,  from  Pope  to  Pope, 

from  age  to  age,  [shores, 
Till  the  sea  wash  her  level  with  her 
Or  till  the  Pope  be  Christ's. 

Enter  Aldwyth. 
Aid.  {to  Edith).     Away  from  him  ! 
Edith.   I  will  ...  I  have  not  spoken 
to  the  king 
One  word  ;  and  one  I  must.   Farewell ! 

[Going 

Har.  Not  yet. 

Stay. 

Edith.      To  what  use? 


HAROLD. 


Scene  i 

Har.    The    king  commands  thee, 
woman  I 

(To  Aldwyth.) 
Have  thy  two  brethren  sent  their  forces 
Ml  ? 

Aid.   Nay,  I  fear,  not. 
Har.   Then  there's  no  force  in  thee  ! 
Thou  didst  possess  thyself  of  Edward's 
ear  loved  ! 

To  part  me  from  the  woman  that  I 
Thou  didst  arouse  the  fierce  Northum- 
brians !  [to  me  !— 
Thou  hast  been  false  to  England  and 
As  ...  in  some  sort  ...  I  have  been 
false  to  thee.               [sides— Go  ! 
Leave  me.   No  more— Pardon  on  both 
Aid.   Alas,  my  lord,  I  loved  thee. 
Har.  {bitterly).             With  a  love 
Passing  thy  love  for  Griffyth  1  where- 
fore now  [Go  ! 
Obey  my  first  and  last  commandment. 
Aid.   O  Harold  !  husband  !   Shall  we 
meet  again  ?                   [tie.  Go. 
Har.   After  the  battle — after  the  bat. 
Aid.   I  go.    {Aside).    That  I  could 
stab  her  standing  there  I 


[Exit  Aldwyth. 
Edith.  Alas,  my  lord,  she  loved  thee. 
Har.  Never  !  never  1 

Edith.   1  saw  it  in  her  eyes  ! 
Har.  I  see  it  in  thine. 


And  not  on  thee — nor  England — fall 
God's  doom ! 
Edith.   On  theef  on  me.   And  thou 
art  England  I  Alfred  [England 
Was  England.   Etheired  was  nothing. 
Is  but  her  king,  and  thou  art  Harold ! 

Ha'.  Edith, 
The  sign  in  heaven— the  sudden  blast  at 
sea—  [dreams— 
My  fatal  oath — the  dead  Saints — the  dark 
The  Pope's  Anathema— the  Holy  Rood 
That  bow'd  to  me  at  Waltham— Edith,  if 
I,  ttie  last  English  King  of  England— 
Edith.  No, 
First  of  a  line  that  coming  from  the 
people, 

And  chosen  by  the  people— 

Har.  And  fighting  for 

And  dying  for  the  people — 
Edith.  Living  I  living  ! 

Har.   Yea  so,  good  cheer  I  thou  art 
Harold,  1  am  Edith  ! 
l  ook  not  thus  wan  ! 
Edith.   What  matters  how  I  look  ? 
35 


545 

Have  we  not  broken  Wales  and  Norse^ 

land  ?  slain,  [war, 
Whose  life  was  all  one  battle,  incarnate 
Their  giant-king,  a  mightier  man-in- 
Than  William.  [arms 
Har.  Ay,  my  girl,  no  tricks  in  him— 
No  bastard  he  !  when  all  was  lost,  he 

yell'd,  [ground, 
And  bit  his  shield,  and  dash'd  it  on  the 
And  swaying  his  two-handed  sword 

about  him,  [us 
Two  deaths  at  every  swing,  ran  in  upon 
And  died  so,  and  I  loved  him  as  I  hate 
This  liar  who  made  me  liar.   If  Hate 

can  kill. 

And  Loathing  wield  a  Saxon  battle-axe  — 
Edith.    Waste  not  ihy  might  before 

the  battle ! 
Har.  No, 
And  thou  must  hence.    Stigand  will  see 

thee  safe. 
And  so— Farewell. 

[He  is  going,  but  turns  back. 
The  ring  thou  d'arest  not  wear, 
I  have  had  it  fasliion'd,  see,  to  meet  my 
hand. 

[Harold  shows  the  ring  which  is 
on  his  finger. 
Farewell ! 

[He  is  going,  but  turns  back  again  . 
I  am  dead  as  Death  this  day  to  aught  of 
earth's 

Save  William's  death  or  mine. 

Edith.  Thy  death  I— to-day  ! 

Is  it  not  thy  birthday  ? 

Har.  Ay,  that  happy  day  ! 

A  birthday  welcome  I  happy  days  and 
many ! 

One— this  !  [They  embrace. 

Look,  I  will  bear  thy  blessing  into  the 
battle 

And  front  the  doom  of  God. 
Norman  cries  {heard  in  the  distance). 

HaRoul  HaRouJ 
Enter  Gurth. 
Gurth.   The  Norman  moves  ! 
Har.  Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 

[Exeun  t  Harold  and  Gurth. 

Enter  Stigand. 
/Stig.    Our  Church  in  arms — the  lamb 
the  lion — not  [way- 
Spear  into  pruning-hook — the  counter 
Cowl,  helm  ;  and  crozier,  battle-axe. 
Abbot  Alfwig, 


HAROLD. 


546 


HAROLD. 


Actb 


Leofric,  and  all  the  monks  of  Peterboro' 
Strike  for  the  king  ;  but  I,  old  wretch. 

old  Stigand,  [and  yet 

With  hands  too  limp  to  brandish  iron — 
I  liave  a  power— would  Harold  ask  me 
I  have  a  power.  [for  it— 

Edith.        What  power,  holy  father  ? 
Stig.   Power  now  from  Harold  to 
command  thee  hence 
And  see  thee  safe  from  Senlac. 
Edith.  I  remain  ! 

Stig.   Yea,  so  will  I,  daughter,  until 
I  find  [see  it 

Which  way  the  battle  balance.  I  can 
From  where  we  stand  :  and,  live  or  die, 
I  would  I  were  among  them  ? 

Canons  from  Waltham  {singing  ivith- 
out). 

Salva  pafriam, 
Sancte  Pater, 
Salva  Filiy 
Salva  Spiritus, 
Salva  patriam, 
San  eta  Mater.* 
Edith.    Are  those  the  blessed  angels 

quiring,  father  ? 
Sttg.   No,  daughter,  but  the  canons 
out  of  Waltham,  [low'd  him. 

The  king's  foundation,  that  have  fol- 
Edith.   O  God  of  battles,  make  their 
wall  of  shields  [isades  ! 

Firm  as  thy  cliffs,  strengthen  their  pal- 
What  is  that  whirring  sound  ? 
Stig.  The  Norman  arrow  ! 

Edith.   Lookout  upon  the  battle — is 
he  safe  ?        [between  his  banners. 
Stig.   The  king  of  England  stands 
He  glitters  on  the  crowning  of  the  hill. 
God  save  king  Harold  ! 

Edith.  —chosen  by  his  people 

And  fightmgfor  his  people  ! 

Stig.  There  is  one 

Come  as  Goliath  came  of  yore — he  flings 
His  brand  in  air  and  catches  it  agani, 
He  is  chanting  some  old  warsong. 

Edith.  And  no  David 

To  meet  him  ?  [him, 
Stig.    Ay,  there  springs  a  Saxon  on 
Falls— and  another  falls. 
Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stig.    Lo  !    our   good  Giirth  hath 
smitten  him  to  the  death. 


*  The  a  throuf^hoiit  these  hymns  should  be 
sounded  broad,  as  in  'lather.' 


Edith.    So  perLsh  aJi  the  enen&ie*  of 

Harold  ! 
Canons  {singina). 

Hostis  in  Angliam 

Ruit  prcEdator, 
lllorum^  Domine., 

Scutum  scindatur  / 
Hostis  per  Angliae 

Flag  as  hacchatur  ; 

Gasa  crematur. 

Pastor  fug  atur 

Grex  trucidatur— 

Stig.   Hlos  trucida,  Domine. 
Edith.  Ay,  good  father. 

Canons  {singing). 

Illorurn  scelera 
Poena  sequatur  ! 

English   cries.     Harold  and  Holy 
Cross  !    Out !  out  ! 

Stig.  Our  javelins 

Answer  their  arrows.   All  the  Norman 
foot  [knights 
Are  storming  up  the  hill.    The  range  of 
Sit,  each  a  statue  on  his  horse,  and  wait. 

Eng.  cries,  Harold  and  God  Almighty ! 

Norman  cries.       Ha  Rou  !  Ha  Kou  ! 

Canons  {singing). 

Eques  cum  pedite 

Prcepediatur  ! 
lllorum  in  lacrymas 

Cruor  fvndatur! 
Pereant,  pereant, 

Anglia  precatur. 

Stig.    Look,  daughter,  look. 
Edith.    Nay,  father,  look  for  me! 
Stig.    Our  axes  lighten  with  a  single 
flash 

About  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  head? 
And  arms  are  sliver'd  ofl'and  splinter'd 
by  [man  flies. 

Their  lightning— and  they  fly— the  Nor- 
Edith.   Stigand,  O  father,  have  we 
won  the  day  ?    [behind  the  hor.-e— 
Stig.   No,  daughter,    no— they  fall 
Their  horse  are  thronging  lo  the  barri- 
cades ; 

T  see  the  gonfanon  of  Holy  Peter 
Floating  above  then-  helmets— ha  !  he  is 
down  I 

Edith.   He  down  !   Who  down  ? 
Stig.       The  Norman  Count  is  down. 


Seem  1 

Edith.    So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 

England  ! 
Stig.   No,  no,  he  hath  risen  again— 
he  bares  his  face—    [all  their  horse 
Shouts  something— he  points  onward — 
Swallow  the  hill  locust-like,  swarming 
up.  [battle-axe  keen 

Edith.   O  God  of  battles,  make  his 
As  thine  own  sharp-dividing  justice, 
heavj^  [ful  heads 

As  thine  own  bolts  that  fall  on  crime- 
Charged  with  the  weight  %i  heaven 
wheref rom  they  fall  I 
Canons  {singing). 

J  acta  tonitrua 

Deus  bellator  / 
Surgas  e  tenebris. 

Sis  vindicator  / 
Fulmina.,fulmina 

Deus  vastator  ! 

Edith.   O  God  of  battles,  they  are 
three  to  one,  [them  down  ! 

Make  thou  one  man  as  three  to  roll 
Canons  {singing). 

Equus  cum  eauite 

Dejiciatur  I 
Acies,  Acies 

Prona  sternatur! 
Illorum  lanceas 

Frange  Creatm^ ! 

Stig.   Yea,  yea,  for  how  their  lances 

snap  and  shiver  [axe  ! 

Against  the  shifting  blaze  of  Harold's 
War-woodman  of  old  Woden,  how  he 

fells  [there  ! 

The  mortal  copse  of  faces  !  There  !  And 
The  horse  and  horsemen  cannot  meet 

the  shield.  [cleaves  the  horse, 

The  blow  that  brains  the  horseman 
The  horse  and  horsemen  roll  along  the 

hill,  [flies ! 

They  fly  once  more,  they  fly,  the  Norman 

Equus  cum  equite 
PrcBcipitatur. 

Edith.   O  God,  the  God  of  truth  hath 
heard  my  cry.  [the  sea  ! 

Follow  them",  follow  them,  drive  them  to 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur  ! 

Stig.    Truth  I  no ;  a  lie  ;  a  trick,  a 
Norman  trick  I 


547 

They  turn  on  the  pursuer,  horse  against 
They  murder  all  that  follow.  [foot, 
Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stig.  Hot-headed  fools— to  burst  the 
wall  of  shields  !  [the  king  ! 

They  have  broken  the  commandment  of 
Edith,   His  oath  was  broken— O  holy 
Norman  Saints,  [beyond 
Ye  that  are  now  of  heaven,  and  see 
Your  Norman  shrines,  pardon  it,  pardon 
it,  [loved. 
That  he  forsware  himself  for  all  he 
Me,  me  and  all  !   Look  out  upon  the 
battle  1  [barricades. 
Stig.   They  thunder  again  upon  the 
My  sight  is  eagle,  but  the  strife  so 
thick—  [hold,  willow  ! 

This  is  the  hottest  of  it :  hold,  ash  ! 
Eng.  crie^.   Out,  out  ! 
Nor.  ci  ies.  Ha  Rou  ! 

Stig.  Ha  I  Gurth  hath  leapt  upon 
him 

And  slain  him  :  he  hath  fallen. 

Edith.  And  I  am  heard. 

Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest  !  fallen, 
fallen  !  [another — wields 
Stig.   No,  no,  his  horse— he  mounts 
His  war-club,  dashes  it  on  Gurth,  and 
Gurth, 

Our  noble  Gurth  is  down  ! 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us ! 

Stig.   And  Leofwin  is  down  ! 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

O  Thou  that  knowest,  let  not  my  strong 
prayer 

Be  weakened  in  thy  sight,  because  I  love 
The  husband  of  another ! 

Nor.  cries.  Ha  Rou  1   Ha  Rou  ! 

Edith.  I  do  not  hear  our  English 
war-cry. 

Stig.  No. 
Edith.   Look  out  upon  the  battle — is 
he  safe  ? 

Stig.   He  stands  between  the  banners 

with  the  dead 
So  piled  about  him  he  can  hardly  move. 
Edith  {takes  up  the  war-cry).    Out  ! 
out ! 

Nor.  cries.   Ha  Rou  ! 
Edith  {cries  out).   Harold  and  Holy 
Cross ! 

Nor.  Cities.   Ha  Rou  !   Ha  Rou  I 
Edith.    What  is  that  whirring  sound  ? 
Stig.   The  Norman  sends  his  arrows 
up  to  Heaven, 


HAROLD. 


548 

Tbey  fall  on  those  within  the  palisade  ! 

Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  hill— is 
Harold  there  ? 

^iig.  Sanguelac— Sanguelac — the  ar- 
row—the arrow ! — away  I 

Scene  11— Field  of  the  dead.  Night. 
Aldwyth  and  Edith. 
Aid.   O  Edith,  art  thou  here  ?  O 
Harold,  Harold—  [more. 
Our  Harold— we  shall  never  see  him 
Edith.   For  there  was  more  than  sis- 
ter in  my  kiss,  [love  them, 
And  so  the  saints  were  wroth.   I  cannot 
For  they  are  Norman  saints — and  yet  I 
should— 

They  are  so  much  holier  than  their  har- 
lot's son 

With  whom  they  play'd  their  game 
against  the  king  ! 
Aid.   Th  ;  king  is  slain,  the  kingdom 

overthrown  ! 
Edith.   No  matter  I 
Aid.    How  no  matter,  Harold  slain  ? — 
I  cannot  find  his  body.    O  help  me 
thou! 

0  Edith,  If  I  ever  wrought  against  thee, 
Forgive  me  thou,  and  help  me  here  I 

Edith.  No  matter ! 

Aid.  Not  help  me,  nor  forgive  me  ? 
Edith.  So  thou  saidest. 

Aid.   I  say  it  now,  forgive  me  ! 
Edith.  Cross  me  not  I 

1  am  seeking  one  who  wedded  me  in 

secret.  [Ha ! 

Whisper  !  God's  angels  only  know  it. 
What  art  thou  doing  here  among  the 

dead  ?  [yonder, 
They  are  stripping  the  dead  bodies  naked 
And  thou  art  come  to  rob  them  of  their 

rings  ! 

Aid.    O  Edith,  Edith,  I  have  lost  both 
crown 
And  husband. 
Edith.  So  have  I. 

Aid.  I  tell  thee,  girl, 

I  am  seeking  my  dead  Harold. 

Edith.  And  I  mine  I 

The  Holy  Father  strangled  him  with  a 
hair 

Of  Peter,  and  his  brother  Tostig  helpt  • 
The  wicked  sister  clapt  her  hands  and 

laugh 'd ; 
Then  all  the  dead  fell  on  him. 
Aid.  Edith,  Edith— 


Act  5 

Edith.   What  was  he  like,  this  hus- 
band ?  like  to  thee  ?  [not. 
Call  not  for  help  'from  me.   1  knew  him 
He  lies  not  here ;  not  close  beside  the 
standard.  [England. 
Here  fell  the  truest,  manliest  hearts  of 
Go  further  hence  and  find  him. 
Aid.  She  is  crazed  ! 

Edith.   That  doth  not  matter  either. 
Lower  tlie  light. 
He  must  be  here. 

Enter  tijk>  Canons,  Osgod  a/ic?  Athelric, 
n'ith  torches.    They  turn  over  the 
dead  bodies  and  examine  them  as 
they  2)ass. 
0-^rjod.    I  think  that  this  is  Thurkill. 
Aihebic.    More  likely  Godric. 
Osgod.         I  am  sure  this  body 
Is  Alfwig,  the  king's  uncle. 

A(h.  So  it  is! 

No,  no— brave  Gurth,  one  gash  from, 
brow  to  knee  I 
Osgood.   And  here  is  Leofwin. 
Edith.  And  here  is  He! 

A'.d.  Harold?  Oh  no— nay,  if  it 
were — my  God,  [his  face 

They  have  so  maim'd  and  murder'd  all 
There  is  no  man  can  swear  to  him. 

Edith.  But  one  woman  ! 

Look  you,  we  never  mean  to  part  agaiu. 
I  have  found  him,  I  am  happy. 
Was  there  not  some  one  ask'd  me  for 

foro;iveness  ? 
I  yield  it  freely,  being  the  true  wife 
Of  this  dead  King,  who  never  bore  re- 
venge. 

Enter   Count  William  and  William 
Malet. 

Will.   Who  be  these  women  ?  And 

what  body  is  this  ? 
Edith.   Harold,  thy  better  ! 
Will.  Ay,  and  what  art  thou  ? 

Edith.   His  wife  ! 

Malet.  Not  true,  my  girl,  here  is  the 
Queen  1        [Pointing  ovt  Aldwyth. 

Will,  {to  Aldwyth).  Wast  thou  his 
Queen  ? 

Aui.       I  was  the  Queen  of  Wales. 
Will.   Why  then  of  England.  Madam, 
fear  us  not. 

(7^0  Malet.) 
Knowest  thou  this  other  ? 
Malet,       Wlien  I  visited  England, 


HAROLD. 


Some  held  she  was  his  wife  in  secret — 
some —  [mour. 
Well— some  believed  she  was  hi§  para- 
Edith.   Norman,  thou  liest !  liars  all 
of  you,  [and  she — 

Your  Saints  and  all !  /  am  his  wife  ! 
For  look,  our  marriage  ring  ! 

\_S7ie  draws  it  off  the  finger  of  Harold. 

I  lost  it  somehow — 
I  lost  it,  playing  with  it  wlien  I  was  wild. 
That  bred  the  doubt  !  but  I  am  wiser 
now  ...  I  am  too  wise  .  .  .  Will 
none  among  you  all  [once — 

Bear  me  true  witness— only  for  this 
That  I  have  found  it  here  again  ? 

[She  puts  it  on. 
And  thou. 
Thy  wife  am  I  for  ever  and  evermore. 

[Falls  on  the  body  and  dies. 
Will.   Death  ! — and  enough  of  death 
for  this  one  day. 
The  day  of  St.  Calixtus,  and  the  day, 
My  day,  when  I  was  born. 

Malet,  And  this  dead  king's, 

Who,  king  or  not,  hath  kinglike  fought 
and  fallen,  [even 
His  birthday,  too.  Tt  seems  but  j^ester- 
I  held  it  with  him  in  his  English  halls, 
His  day,  with  all  his  roof  tree  ringing 
'Harold,' 

Before  he  fell  into  the  snare  of  Guy  ; 
When  all  men  counted  Harold  would  be 
king. 

And  Harold  was  most  happy. 

Will.  a^hou  art  half  English. 

Take  them  away  ! 

Malet,  I  vow  to  l)uild  a  church  to  God 
Here  on  this  hill  of  battle  ;  let  our  hi^h 

altar  [where  these  two  lie. 

Stand  where  their  standard  fell  .  .  . 
Take  them  away,  I  do  not  love  to  see 

them.  [Malet ! 

Pluck  the  dead  woman  off  the  dead  man, 
Malet,   Faster  than  ivy.   Must  I  hack 

her  arms  off  ? 
How  shall  1  part  them  ? 


549 

Will.     Leave  them.  Lettliembei 
Bury  him  and  his  paramour  together. 
He  that  was  false  in  oath  to  me,  it  seema 
Was  false  to  his  own  wife.   We  will  not 

give  him  [rior, 
A  Cliristian  burial  :  yet  he  was  a  war- 
And  wise,  yea  truthful,  till  that  blighted 

vow 

Which  God  avenged  to-day. 

Wrap  them  together  in  a  purple  cloak 

And  lay  them  both  upon  the  waste  sea 

shore  [which 
At  Hastings,  there  to  guard  the  lajtd  for 
He  did  forswear  himself — a  warrior — ay, 
And  but  that  Holy  Peter  fought  for  us, 
And  that  the  false  Northumbrian  held 

aloof,  [the  Sainta 

And  save  for  that  chance  arrow  which 
Sharpened  and  sent  against  him — who 

can  tell? —  [twice 
Three  horses  had  I  slain  beneath  me  : 
I  thought  that  all  was  losl.  Since  I  knew 

battle,  [yet— 
And  that  was  from  my  boyliood,  never 
No,  by  the  splendour  of  God— have  I 

fought  men  [guard 
Like  Harold  and  his  Diethren,  and  his 
Of  English.  Every  man  about  his  king 
Fell  where  he  stood.   They  loved  him  : 

and,  pray  God  [me 
My  Normans  may  but  move  as  true  with 
To  the  door  of  death.   Of  one  self-stock 

at  first,  [English; 
Make  them  again  one  people— Norman, 
And  English,  Norman  : — we  should  have 

a  hand  [stamp  it  .  .  . 

To  grasp  the  world  with,  and  a  foot  to 
Flat.   Praise  the  Saints.    It  is  over. 

No  more  blood !  [not, 
I  am  king  of  England,  so  they  thwart  me 
And  I  will  rule  according  to  their  laws. 

(Tb  Aldwyth.) 
Madam,  we  will  entreat  thee  with  all 

honor. 

Aid,   My  punishment  is  more  than  I 
can  bear. 


HAROLD, 


550 


'  THE  REVENGE.* 


*  THE  REVENGE.' 


A  Ballad  of  the  Fleet. 


I. 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  fiutter'd  bird,  came  flying  from  far  away: 
*  Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea  !  we  have  sighted  tifty-three  ! ' 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard  :  *  'Fore  God  I  am  no  coward  ! 
But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of  gear. 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.    1  must  fly,  but  follow  quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line  ;  can  we  flght  with  fifty  three  ?* 


II. 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  :  '  I  know  you  are  no  coward ; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  flght  with  them  again. 

But  I've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are  lying  sick  ashore. 

1  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Spain.' 


III. 

So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five  ships  of  war  that  day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent  summer  heaven  ; 

But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from  the  land 

Very  carefully  and  slow, 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 

And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below  ; 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard. 

And  they  blest  him  in  their  i)ain,  that  they  were  not  left  to  Spain 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 


IV. 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship  and  to  fight, 
And  he  sail'd  away  from  Flores  till  the  Spaniard  came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather  bow. 
*  Shall  we  flght  or  ^Jiall  we  fly  ? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  let  us  know, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die  ! 

There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this  sun  be  set.' 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again  :  *  We  be  all  good  English  men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  cliildrcn  of  the  devil. 
For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or  <k'vil  yet-' 


♦  THE  RE  VENGE: 


551 


V. 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh'd,  and  we  roared  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  '  Revenge  '  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the  foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety  sick  below  ; 
For  half  of  their  Jleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left  were  seen, 
And  the  little  '  Revenge  '  ran  on  thro'  the  long  sea-lane  between. 


VT. 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down  from  their  decks  and  laugh'd, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 

By  their  mountain-like  *  San  Philip '  that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons, 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stay'd. 


VII. 

And  while  now  the  great  '  San  Philip '  hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day. 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  starboard  lay. 
And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 


VIII. 

But  anon  the  great  '  San  Philip,'  she  bethought  herself  and  went 
Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill-content ; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought  us  hand  to  hand. 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and  musqueteers. 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that  shakes  his  ears 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 


IX. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-built  galleons  came, 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  tattle-thunder  and  flame  ; 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with  her  dead  and  her  shame. 
For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shatter'd,  and  so  could  fight  us  no  more- 
God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this  in  the  world  before  ? 


X. 

For  he  said  '  Fight  on  !  fight  on  ! ' 
Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck 


552 


*  THE  REVENGE.' 


And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  summer  night  was  gone, 
With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left  the  deck, 
But  n  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly  dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and  the  head. 
And  he  said  *  Fight  on  !  tight  on  ! ' 


XI. 


And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 

And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring  ; 

But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  fear'd  that  we  still  could  sting, 

So  tliey  watch  d  what  the  end  wouM  be. 

And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 

But  in  perilous  plight  were  we. 

Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain. 

And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 

In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  desperate  strife  ; 

And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of  them  stark  and  cold. 

And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent,  and  the  powder  was  all  of  it  spent ; 

And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the  side  ; 

Bu  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 

*  W  ^  have  fought  such  a  tight  for  a  day  and  a  night 

As  may  never  be  fought  again  ! 

We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  ! 

And  a  day  less  or  more 

At  sea  or  shore, 

We  die — does  it  matter  when  ? 

Sink  me  the  ship.  Master  Gunner— sink  her,  split  her  in  twain  ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of  Spain  ! ' 


XII. 


And  the  gunner  said  '  Ay,  ay,'  but  the  seamen  made  reply  : 
'  We  have  children,  we  have  wives. 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 

We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to  let  us  go; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  another  blow.' 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the  foe. 


XIII. 


And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore  him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sii-  Kichard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly  foreign  grace  ; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried  : 
'  I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant  man  and  true  ; 
I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do  : 
With  a  joyful  spirit  1  Sir  Richard  Grenville  die  • ' 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUC  KNOW. 


And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been  so  valiant  and  trit«, 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glrfa-y  of  Spain  so  cheap 

That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English  few; 

Was  he  devil  or  man  ?   He  was  devil  for  aught  they  knew. 

But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down  into  the  deep, 

And  they  mann'd  the  *  Revenge'  with  a  swarthier  alien  crew. 

And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and  long'd  for  her  own  ; 

When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep, 

And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to  moan, 

And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great  gale  blew, 

And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earthquake  grew, 

Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their  masts  and  their  flags, 

And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the  shot-shatter'd  navy  of  Spain, 

And  the  little  *  Revenge '  herself  went  down  by  the  island  crags 

To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 


Dedicatory  Poem  to  the  Princess  Alice. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that,  which  lived 
True  life,  live  on— and  if  the  fatal  kiss, 
Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce  thee  not 
From  earthly  love  and  life— if  what  we  call 
The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from  out 
This  shadow  into  Substance — then  perhaps 
The  mellow'd  murmur  of  the  people's  praise. 
From  thine  own  State,  and  all  our  breadth  of  realm. 
Where  Love  and  Longing  dress  thy  deeds  in  light, 
Ascends  to  thee  ;  and  this  March  morn  that  sees 
Thy  Soldier-brother's  bridal  orange-bloom 
Break  thro'  the  yews  and  cypress  of  thy  grave, 
And  thine  Imperial  mother  smile  again, 
May  send  one  ray  to  thee  !  and  who  can  tell — 
Thou— England's  England-loving  daughter— thou 
Dying  so  English  thou  wouldst  have  her  flag 
Borne  on  thy  coffin — where  is  he  can  swear 
But  that  some  broken  gleam  from  our  poor  earth 
May  touch  thee,  while  remembering  thee,  I  lay 
At  thy  pale  feet  this  ballad  of  the  deeds 
Of  England,  and  her  banner  in  the  East  ? 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW, 
I. 

Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O  banner  of  Britain,  hast  thou 

Floated  in  conquering  battle  or  flapt  to  the  battle-cry  ! 

Never  with  mightier  glory  than  when  we  had  rear'd  thee  on  high 


554 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW, 


Flying  at  top  of  the  roofs  in  the  ghastly  siege  of  Lucknow — 
Shot  thro'  the  staff  or  the  halyard,  but  ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

II. 

Frail  were  the  works  that  defended  the  hold  that  we  held  with  our  lives — 
Women  and  children  among  us,  God  help  them,  our  children  and  wives  ! 
Hold  it  we  might — and  for  fifteen  days  or  for  twenty  at  most. 

*  Never  surrender,  I  charge  you,  but  every  man  die  at  his  post ! ' 
Voice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved,  our  Lawrence  the  best  of  the  brave : 
Cold  were  his  brows  when  we  kissed  him — we  laid  him  that  nightin  his  grave, 

*  Every  man  die  at  his  post ! '  and  there  hail'd  on  our  houses  and  halls 
Death  from  their  rifle-bullets,  and  death  from  their  cannon-balls. 
Death  in  our  innermost  chamber,  and  death  at  our  slight  barricade, 

Death  while  we  stood  with  the  musket,  and  death  while  we  stoopt  to  the 
spade, 

Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to  the  wounded,  for  often  there  fell 
Striking  the  hospital  wall,  crashing  thro'  it,  their  shot  and  their  shell, 
Death — for  their  spies  were  among  us,  their  marksmen  were  told  of  our  best, 
So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  through  the  brain  that  could  think  for  the  rest; 
Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreheads,  and  bullets  would  rain  at  our  feet — 
Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the  rebels  that  girdled  us  round — 
Death  at  the  glimpse  of  a  finger  from  over  the  breadth  of  a  street, 
Death  from  the  heights  of  the  mosque  and  the  palace,  and  death  in  the  ground  ! 
Mine  ?  yea,  a  mine  !   Countermine  !  down,  down  !  and  creep  thro'  the  hole  I 
Keep  the  revolver  in  hand  !   You  can  hear  him— the  murderous  mole. 
Quiet,  ah  !  quiet — wait  till  the  point  of  the  pickaxe  be  thro'  ! 
Click  with  the  pick,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  again  than  before — 
Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the  dark  pioneer  is  no  more  ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

III. 

Ay,  but  the  foe  sprung  his  mine  many  times,  and  it  chanced  on  a  day 
Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground  thunderclap  echo'd  away, 
Dark  thro'  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur  like  so  many  fiends  in  their  hell — 
Canon-shot,  musket-shot,  volley  on  volley,  and  yell  upon  yell — 
Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myriad  enemy  fell. 
What  have  they  done ?  where  is  it?  Out  yonder.   Guard  the  Redan  ! 
Storm  at  the  Water-gate  !  storm  at  the  Bailey-gate  !  storm,  and  it  ran 
Surging  and  swaying  all  round  us,  as  ocean  on  every  side 
Plunges  and  heaves  at  a  bank  that  is  daily  drown'd  by  the  tide — 
So  many  thousands  that  if  they  be  bold  enough,  who  shall  escape  ? 
Kill  or  be  kill'd,  live  or  die,  they  shall  know  we  are  soldiers  and  men  ! 
Ready  !  take  aim  at  their  leaders— their  masses  are  gapp'd  with  our  grape- 
Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like  the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 
Flying  and  foil'd*  at  the  last  by  the  handful  they  could  not  subdue ; 
And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 

IV. 

Handful  of  men  as  we  were,  we  were  English  in  heart  and  in  limb, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race  to  command,  to  obey,  to  endure. 
Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the  garrison  hung  but  on  him  ; 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW. 


5$5 


Still— could  we  watch  at  all  points  ?  we  were  every  day  fewer  and  fewer. 

There  was  a  whisper  among  us,  but  only  a  whisper  that  past  : 

♦  Children  and  wives— if  the  tigers  leap  into  the  fold  unawares — 

Every  man  die  at  his  post— and  the  foe  may  outlive  us  at  last — 

Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they  love,  than  to  fall  into  theirs  !  * 

Roar  upon  roar  in  a  moment  two  mines  by  the  enemy  sprung 

Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls  and  our  poor  palisades. 

Rifleman,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be  sure  that  your  hand  be  as  true  ! 

Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault,  better  aim'd  are  your  flank  fusillades — 

Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from  the  ladders  to  which  they  had  clung, 

Twice  from  the  ditch  where  they  shelter  we  drive  them  with  hand-grenades  ; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew. 


V. 

Then  on  another  wild  morning  another  wild  earthquake  out-tore 
Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or  twelve  good  paces  or  more. 
Rifleman,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden  there  from  the  light  of  the  sun — 
One  has  leapt  up  on  the  breach,  crying  out :  '  Follow  me,  follow  me  ! ' — 
Mark  him— he  falls  !  then  another,  and  him  too,  and  down  goes  he. 
Had  they  been  bold  enough  then,  who  can  tell  but  the  traitors  had  won? 
Boardings  and  rafters  and  doors — an  embrasure  !  make  way  for  the  gun  ! 
Now  double-charge  it  with  grape  !   It  is  charged  and  we  fire,  and  they  run. 
Praise  to  our  Indian  brothers,  and  let  the  dark  face  have  his  due  ! 
Thanks  to  the  kindly  dark  faces  who  fought  with  us,  faithful  and  few. 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us,  and  drove  them,  and  smote  them,  and 
slew, 

That  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  in  India  blew. 


YI. 

Men  will  forget  what  we  suffer  and  not  what  we  do.   We  can  fight  ; 

But  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  sentinel  all  thro'  the  night — 

Ever  the  mine  and  assault,  our  sallies,  their  lying  alarms. 

Bugles  and  drums  in  the  darkness,  and  shoutings  and  soundings  to  arms, 

Ever  the  labor  of  fifty  that  had  to  be  done  by  five. 

Ever  the  marvel  among  us  that  one  should  be  left  alive. 

Ever  the  day  with  its  traitorous  death  from  the  loop-holes  around, 

Ever  the  night  with  its  coffinless  corpse  to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 

Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a  hell,  or  a  deluge  of  cataract  skies. 

Stench  of  old  offal  decaying,  and  infinite  torment  of  flies, 

Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blowing  over  an  English  field. 

Cholera,  scurvy,  and  fever,  the  wound  that  laould  not  be  heal'd, 

Lopping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pitiful-pitiless  knife, — 

Torture  and  trouble  in  vain,— for  it  never  could  save  us  a  life. 

Valor  of  delicate  women  who  tended  the  hospital  bed, 

Horror  of  women  in  travail  among  the  dying  and  dead, 

Grief  for  our  perishing  children,  and  never  a  moment  for  grief, 

Toil  and  inefl"able  weariness,  faltering  hopes  of  relief, 

Havelock  baflled,  or  beaten,  or  butcher'd  for  all  that  we  knew— 

Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  coming  down  on  the  still-shatter'd  walls 

Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thousands  of  cannon-balls — 

But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  banner  of  England  blew 


556 


THE  DEFENCE  OF  LUCKNOW, 


VII. 

Hark  cannonade,  fusillade  !  is  it  true  what  was  told  by  the  scout  ? 
Outram  and  Havelock  breaking  their  way  thro'  the  fell  mutineers ! 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ringing  again  in  our  ears  ! 
All  on  a  sudden  the  garrison  utter  a  jubliant  shout, 
Havelock's  glorious  Highlanders  answer  with  conquering  cheers, 
Forth  from  their  holes  and  their  hidings  our  women  and  children  come 
Blessing  the  wholesome  white  faces  of  Havelock's  good  f usiieers, 
Kissing  the  war-harden'd  hand  of  the  Highlander  wet  with  their  tears  I 
Dance  to  the  pibroch  !— saved  !  we  are  saved  !  —is  it  you  ?  is  it  you  ? 
Saved  by  the  valor  of  Havelock,  saved  by  the  blessing  of  Heaven  ! 
*  Hold  it  for  fifteen  days  ! '  we  have  held  it  for  eighty-seven  ! 
And  ever  aloft  on  the  palace  roof  the  old  banner  of  England  blew. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE 


The  original  preface  to  **  The  Lover's  Tale  "  states  that  it  was  composed  in 
my  nineteenth  year.  Two  only  of  the  three  parts  then  written  were  printed, 
when,  feeling  the  imperfection  of  the  poem,  I  withdrew  it  from  the  press. 
Oneiof  my  friends,  however,  who,  boy-like,  admired  the  boy's  work,  distrib- 
uted among  our  common  associates  of  that  hour  some  copies  of  these  two 
parts,  without  my  knowledge,  without  the  omissions  and  amendments  which  I 
had  in  contemplation,  and  marred  by  the  many  misprints  of  the  compositor. 
Seeing  that  these  two  parts  have  of  late  been  mercilessly  pirated,  and  that 
what  I  had  deemed  scarce  worthy  to  live  is  not  allowed  to  die,  may  I  not  be 
pardoned  if  I  suffer  the  whole  poem  at  last  to  come  into  the  light,  accompanied 
with  a  reprint  of  the  sequel,— a  work  of  my  mature  life,— "The  Golden 
Supper"  ? 

May,  1879,  


ARGUMENT. 

Julian,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his 
friend  and  rival,  Lionel,  endeavors  to  narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for 
her,  and  the  strange  sequel.  He  speaks  (in  Parts  II.  and  III.)  of  having  been 
haunted  by  visions  and  the  sound  of  bells,  tolling  for  a  funeral,  and  at  last 
ringing  for  a  marriage  ;  but  he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  approaches  the 
Event,  and  a  witness  to  it  completes  the  tale. 


Here  far  away,  seen  from  the  top- 
most cliff. 

Filling  with  purple  gloom  the  vacan- 
cies 

Between  the  tufted  hills,  the  sloping 
seas 

Hung  in  mid-heaven,  and  half  way 

down  rare  sails. 
White  as  white  clouds,  floated  from 

sky  to  sky. 
Oh !  pleasant  breast  of  waters,  quiet 

bay, 

Like  to  a  quiet  mind  in  the  loud  world. 
Where  the  chafed  breakers  of  the 

outer  sea 
Sank  powerless,  as  anger  falls  aside 
And  withers  on  the  breast  of  peaceful 

love  J 


Thou  didst  receive  the  growth  of  pines 

that  fledged 
The  hills  that  watched  thee,  as  Love 

watcheth  Love, 
In  thine  own  essence,  and  delight 

thyself 

To  make  it  wholly  thine  on  sunny 
days. 

Keep  thou  thy  name  of  ''Lover's 
Bay."   See,  sirs. 

Even  now  the  Goddess  of  the  Past, 
that  takes 

The  heart,  and  sometimes  touches  but 
■    one  string 

That  quivers,  and  is  silent,  and  some- 
times 

Sweeps  suddenly  all  its  half-moulder'd 
chords 


658 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


To  some  old  melody,  begins  to  play- 
That  air  which  pleased  her  first.  1 

feel  thy  breath  ; 
I  come,  great  Mistress  of  the  ear  and 

eye  ; 

Thy  breath  is  of  the  pine  wood ;  and 

tho'  years 
Have  hoUow'd  out  a  deep  and  stormy 

strait 

Betwixt  the  native  land  of  Love  and 
me, 

Breathe  but  a  little  on  me,  and  the 
sail 

Will  draw  me  to  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
The  lucid  chambers  of  the  morning 
star, 

And  East  of  Life. 

Permit  me,  friend,  I  prithee, 
To  pass  my  hand  across  my  brows,  and 
muse 

On  those  dear  hills,  that  never  more 
will  meet 

The  sight  that  throbs  and  aches  be- 
neath my  touch, 

As  tho'  there  beat  a  heart  in  either 
eye  ; 

For  when  the  outer  lights  are  darken'd 
thus. 

The  memory's  vision  hath  a  keener 
edge. 

It  grows  upon  me  now— the  semicircle 
Of  dark  blue  waters  and  the  narrow 
fringe 

Of  curving  beach— its  wreaths  of  drip- 
ping green- 
Its  pale  pink   shells--the  summer- 
house  aloft 
That  open'd  on  the  pines  with  doors 
6i  glass, 

A  mountain  nest — the  pleasure-boat 

that  rock'd 
Light  green  with  its  own  shadow,  keel 

to  keel, 

Upon  the  dappled  dimplings  of  the 
wave. 

That  blanch'd  upon  its  side. 

O  Love,  O  Hope  ! 
They  come,  they  crowd  upon  me  all 
at  once — 

Moved  from  the  cloud  of  unforgotten 
things, 

That  sometimes  on  the  horizon  of  the 
mind 


Lies  folded,  often  sweeps  athwart  in 
storm— 

Flash  upon  flash  they  lighten  thro'  me 
—days 

Of  dewy  dawning  and  the  amber  eyes 
When  thou  and  1,  Camilla,  thou  and  i" 
Were  borne  about  the  bay  or  safely 
moor'd 

Beneath  a  low-brow'd  cavern,  where 
the  tide 

Plash'd,  sapping  its  worn  ribs ;  and 

all  without 
The  slowly  ridging  rollers  on  the  cliffs 
Clash'd,   calling  to  each  other,  and 

thro'  the  arch 
Down  those  loud  waters,  like  a  setting 

star, 

Mixt  with  the  gorgeous  west  the  light- 
house shone, 
And  silver-smiling  Venus  ere  she  fell 
Would  often  loiter  in  her  balmy  blue, 
To  crown  it  with  herself. 

Here,  too,  my  love 
Waver'd  at  anchor  with  me,  when  day 
hung 

From  his  mid-dome  in  Heaven's  airy 
halls  ; 

Gleams  of  the  water-circles,  as  they 
broke, 

Flicker'd  like  doubtful  smiles  about 
her  lips, 

Quiver'd  a  flying  glory  on  her  hair, 
Leapt  like  a  passing  thought  across 
her  eyes  ; 

And  mine  with  one  that  will  not  pass, 
till  earth 

And  heaven  pass  too,  dwelt  on  my 

heaven,  a  face 
MoBt  starry-fair,  but  kindled  from 

within 

As  'twere  with  dawn.  She  was  dark- 
haired,  dark-eyed  : 

Oh,  such  dark  eyes  !  a  single  glance  of 
them 

Will  govern  a  whole  life  from  birth  to 
death,  [light 
Careless  of  all  things  else,  led  on  with 
In  trances  and  in  visions :  look  at 
them. 

You  lose  yourself  in  utter  ignorance  ; 
You  cafinot  find  their  depth  ;  for  they 
go  back, 

And  farther  back,  and  still  withdraw 
themselves 


THE  LOVEh  'S  TALE. 


559 


Quite  into  the  deep  soul,  that  ever- 
more 

Fresh  springing  from  her  fountains 
in  the  brain, 

Still  pouring  thro',  floods  with  redund- 
ant life 

Her  narrow  portals. 

Trust  me,  long  ago 
I  should  have  died,  if  it  were  possible 
To  die  in  gazing  on  that  perfectness 
Which  I  do  bear  within  me  :  I  had 
died, 

But  from  my  farthest  lapse,  my  latest 
ebb, 

Thine  image,  like  a  charm  of  light  and 
strength 

Upon  the  waters,  push'd  me  back 
again 

On  these  deserted  sands  of  barren  life. 
Tho'  from  the  deep  vault  where  the 

heart  of  Hope 
Fell  into  dust,  and  crumbled  in  the 

dark- 
Forgetting  how  to  render  beautiful 
Her   countenance    with    quick  and 

healthful  blood — 
Thou  didst  not   sway  me  upward ; 

could  I  perish 
While  thou,  a  meteor  of  the  sepulchre, 
Didst  swathe  thyself  all  round  Hope's 

quiet  urn 

Forever?  He,  that  saith  it,  hath  o'er- 
stept 

The  slippery  footing  of  his  narrow  wit, 
And  fall'n  away  from  judgment.  Thou 
art  light, 

To  which  my  spirit  leaneth  all  her 
flowers, 

And  length  of  days,  and  immortality 
Of  thought,  and  freshness  ever  self- 
renew'd. 

For  Time  and  Grief  abode  too  long 

with  Life, 
And,  like  all  other  friends  i'  the  world, 

at  last 

They  grew  aweary  of  her  fellowship  : 
So  Time  and  Grief  did  beckon  unto 
Death, 

And  Death  drew  nigh  and  beat  the 

doors  of  Life ; 
But  thou  didst  sit  alone  in  the  inner 

house, 

A  wakeful  portress,  and  didst  parle 
with  Death,— 


This  is  a  charmed  dwelling  which  F 
hold  , " 

So  Death  gave  back,  and  would  no 

further  come. 
Yet  is  my  life  nor  in  the  present  time. 
Nor  in  the  present  place.  To  me  alone, 
Push'd  from  his  chair  of  regal  heritage, 
The  Present  is  the  vassal  of  the  Past : 
So  that,  in  that  I  have  lived,  do  I  live, 
And  cannot  die,  and  am,  in  having 

been, 

A  portion  of  the  pleasant  yesterday, 
Thrust  forward  on  to-day  and  out  of 
place  ; 

A  body  journeying  onward,  sick  with 
toil. 

The  weight  as  if  of  age  upon  my  limbs, 
The  grasp  of  hopeless  grief  about  my 
heart. 

And  all  the  senses  weaken'd,  save  In 
that. 

Which  long  ago  they  had  glean'd  and 
garner'd  up 

Into  the  granaries  of  memory — 

The  clear  brow,  bulwark  of  the  pre- 
cious brain, 

Chink'd  as  you  see,  and  seam'd— and 
all  the  while 

The  light  soul  twines  and  mingles  with 
the  growths 

Of  vigorous  early  days,  attracted,  won, 

Married,  made  one  with,  molten  into 
all 

The  beautiful  in  Past  of  act  or  place. 
And  like  the    all -enduring  camel, 
driven 

Far  from  the  diamond  fountain  by  the 
palms. 

Who  toils  across  the  middle  moon-lit 
nights, 

Or  when  the  white  heats  of  the  blind- 
ing noons 

Beat  from  the  concave  sand ;  yet  i  n 

him  keeps 
A  draught  of  that  sweet  fountain  that 

he  loves,  [spirit 
To  stay  his  feet  from  falling,  and  his 
From  bitterness  of  death. 

Ye  ask  me,  friends, 
When  I  began  to  love.   How  should  I 
tell  you  ? 

Or  from  the  after-fullness  of  my  heart, 
Flow  back  again  unto  my  slender 
spring 


560 


THE  LOVER'S  TALjS, 


And  first  of  love,  tlio'  every  turn  and 
depth 

Between  is  clearer  in  my  life  than  all 
Its  present  flow.    Ye  know  not  what 
ye  ask. 

How  should  the  broad  and  open  flower 
Veil 

What  sort  of  bud  it  was,  when,  prest 
together 

In  its  green  sheath,  close-lapt  in  silken 
folds, 

It  seem'd  to  keep  its  sweetness  to  itself, 
Yet  was  not  the  less  sweet  for  that  it 
seem'd  ? 

For  young  Life  knows  not  when  young 

Life  was  born. 
But  takes  it  all  for  granted :  neither 

Love, 

Warm  in  the  heart,  his  cradle,  can  re- 
member 

Love  in  the  womb,  but  resteth  satisfied. 
Looking  on  her  that  brought  him  to 

the  light : 
Or  as  men  know  not  when  they  fall 

asleep 

Into  delicious  dreams,  our  other  life, 
So  know  I  not  when  I  began  to  love. 
This  is  my  sum  of  knowledge— that  my 
love 

Grew  with  myself— say  rather,  was  my 
growth, 

My  inward  sap,  the  hold  I  have  on 
earth. 

My  outward  circling  air  wherewith  I 
breathe, 

Which  yet  upholds  my  life,  and  ever- 
more 

Is  to  me  daily  life  and  daily  death  : 
For  how  should  I  have  lived  and  not 

have  loved  ? 
Can  ye  take  off  the  sweetness  from  the 

flower. 

The  color  and  the  sweetness  from  the 
rose, 

And  place  them  by  themselves  ;  or  set 
apart 

Their  motions  and  their  brightness 

from  the  stars. 
And  then  point  out  the  flower  or  the 

star? 

Or  build  a  wall  betwixt  my  life  and 
love. 

And  tell  me  where  T  am  ?   'Tis  even 
thus  : 

In  that  I  live  I  love  ;  because  I  love 


I  live  :  whate'er  is  fountain  to  the  one 
Is  fountain  to  the  other  ;  and  whene'er 
Our  God  unknits  the  riddle  of  the  one, 
There  is  no  shade  or  fold  of  mystery 
Swathing  the  other. 

Many,  many  years 
(For  they  seem  many  and  my  most  of 
life, 

And  well  I  could  have  linger'd  in  that 
porch. 

So  unproportion'd  to  the  dwelling- 
place). 

In  the  May  dews  of  childhood,  opposite 
The  flush  and  dawn  of  youth,  we  lived 
together, 

Apart,  alone  together  on  those  hills. 

Before  he  saw  my  day  my  father  died, 
And  he  was  happy  that  he  saw  it  not ; 
But  I  and  the  first  daisy  on  his  grave 
From  the  same  clay  came  into  light  at 
once. 

As  Love  and  I  do  number  equal  years, 
So  she,  my  love,  is  of  an  age  with  me. 
How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 
each ! 

On  the  same  morning,  almost  the  same 
hour, 

Under  the  selfsame  aspect  of  the  stars 
(O  falsehood  of  all  starcraft !),  we  were 
born. 

How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 

each  ! 

The  sister  of  my  mother— she  that  bore 
Camilla   close   beneath  her  beating 
heart, 

Wliicth  to  the  imprison'd  spirit  of  the 
child. 

With  its  true  touched  pulses  in  the 
flow 

And  hourly  visitation  of  the  blood. 
Sent  notes  of  preparation  manifold. 
And  mellow'd  echoes  of  the  outer 
world— 

My  mother's  sister,  mother  of  my  love, 
Who  had  a  twofold  claim  upon  my 

heart,  [was, 
One  twofold  mightier  than  the  other 
In  giving  so  much  beauty  to  the  world. 
And  so  much  wealth  as  God  had 

charged  her  with— 
Loathing  to  put  it  from  herself  forever, 
Left  her  own  life  with  it ;  and  dying 

thus. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Crown'd  with  her  highest  act  the  placid 
face 

And  breathless  body  of  her  good  deeds 


So  we  were  born,  so  orphan'd.  She 

was  motherless 
And  1  without  a  father.    So  from  each 
Of  those  two  pillars  which  from  earth 

uphold 

Our  childhood,  one  had  fallen  away, 
and  all 

The  careful  burden  of  our  tender  years 
Trembled  upon  the  other.    He  that 
gave 

Her  life,  to  me  delightedly  fulfill'd 
All  loving-kindnesses,  all  offices 
Of  watchful  care  and  trembling  tender- 
ness. 

He  waked  for  both :  he  pray'd  for 

both :  he  slept 
Dreaming  of  both  :  nor  was  his  love 

the  less 

Because  it  was  divided,  and  shot  forth 
Boughs  on  each  side,  laden  with  whole- 
some shade, 
Wherein  we  nested  sleeping  or  awake, 
And  sang  aloud  the  matin-song  of  life. 

She  was  my  foster-sister  :  on  one  arm 
The  flaxen  ringlets  of  our  infancies 
Wander'd,  the  while  we  rested  :  one 
soft  lap 

Pillow'd  us  both  :  a  common  light  of 
eyes 

"Was  on  us  as  we  lay  :  our  baby  lips. 
Kissing  one  bosom,  ever  drew  from 
thence 

The  stream  of  life,  one  stream,  one  life, 

one  blood, 
One  sustenance,  which,  still  as  thought 

grew  large. 
Still  larger  moulding  all  the  house  of 

thought, 

Made  all  our  tastes  and  fancies  like, 

perhaps- 
All — all  but  one  ;  and  strange  to  me, 

and  sweet. 
Sweet  thro'  strange  years  to  know  that 

whatsoe'er 
Our  general  mother  meant  for  me 

alone. 

Our  mutual  mother  dealt  to  both  of  us: 
So  what  was  earliest  mine  in  earliest- 
life, 


I  shared  with  her  in  whom  myself  re- 
mains. 

As  was  our  childhood,  so  our  infancy, 
They  tell  me,  was  a  very  miracle 
Of  febow-feeling  and  communion. 
They  tell  me  that  we  would  not  be 
alone — 

We  cried  when  we  were  parted  ;  when 
I  wept, 

Her  smile  lit  up  the  rainbow  on  my 
tears, 

Staid  on  the  cloud  of  sorrow  ;  that  we 
loved 

The  sound  of  one  another's  voices 
more 

Than  the  gray  cuckoo  loves  his  name, 

and  learnt 
To  lisp  in  tune  together  ;  that  we  slept 
In  the  same  cradle  always,  face  to  face, 
Heart  beating  time  to  heart,  lip  press- 
ing lip, 

Folding  each  other,  breathing  on  each 
other. 

Dreaming  together  (dreaming  of  each 
other 

They  should  have   added),  till  the 

morning  light 
Sloped  thro'  the  pines,  upon  the  dewy 

pane 

Falling,  unseal'd  our  eyelids,  and  we 
woke 

To  gaze  upon  each  other.  If  this  be 
true, 

At  thought  of  which  my  whole  soul 
languishes 

And  faints,  and  hath  no  pulse,  no 
breath— as  tho' 

A  man  in  some  still  garden  should  in- 
fuse 

Rich  attar  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose, 
Till,  drunk  with  its  own  wine,  and 
overfull 

Of  sweetness,  and  in  smelling  of  itself, 
It  fall  on  its  own  thorns — if  this  be 

true,—  [more 
And  that  way  my  wish  leads  me  ever- 
Still  to  believe  it,  't  is  so  sweet  a 

thought,— 
Why  in  the  utter  stillness  of  the  soul 
Doth  question'd  menp^ry  answer  not, 

nor  tell 

Of  this  our  earliest,  our  closest-drawn, 
Most  loveliest,  earthly-heavenliest  har- 
mony ? 

36 


562 


THE  LOVER'S  TALK. 


O  blossom'd  portal  of  the  lonely 
house, 

Green  prelude,  April  promise,  glad 
new-year 

Of  Being,  which  with  earliest  violets 
And  lavish  carol  of  clear  -  throated 

inil'd  all  the  March  of  life  !— I  will  not 

speak  of  thee  ; 
These  have  not  seen  thee,  these  can 

never  know  thee, 
They  cannot  understand  me.   Pass  we 

then 

A  term  of  eighteen  years.    Ye  would 

but  laugh 
If  I  should  tell  you  how  I  hoard  in 

thought 

The  faded  rhymes  and  scraps  of  ancient 
crones, 

Gray  relics  of  the  nurseries  of  the 
world, 

Which  are  as  gems  set  iu  my  memory. 
Because  she  learnt  them  wilh  me  ;  or 
what  use 

To  know  her  father  left  us  just  before 
The  daffodil  was  blown  ?  or  how  we 
found 

The  dead  man  cast  upon  the  shore? 
All  this 

Seems  to  the  quiet  daylight  of  your 
minds 

But  cloud  and  smoke,  and  in  the  dark 
of  mine 

Is  traced  with  flame.  Move  with  me 
to  the  event. 

There  came  a  glorious  morning,  such 
a  one 

As  dawns  but  once  a  season.  Mercury 
On  such  a  morning  would  have  flung 
himself 

From  cloud  to  cloud,  and  swum  with 

balanced  wings 
To  some  tall  mountain  :  when  I  said  to 

her, 

*'  A  day  for  Gods  to  stoop,'*  she  an- 
swered, "  Ay, 

And  men  to  soar :  '*  for  as  that  other 
gazed, 

Shading  his  eyes  till  all  the  fiery  cloud, 
The  prophet  and  the  chariot  and  the 
steeds, 

Suck'd  into  oneness  like  a  little  star 
Were  drunk  into  the  inmost  blue,  we 
stood, 


When  first  we  came  from  out  the  pines 
at  noon. 

With  hands  for  eaves,  uplooking  and 
almost 

Waiting  to  see  some  blessed  shape  in 
heaven. 

So    bathed    we   were  in  brilliance. 

Never  yet 
Before  or  after  have  I  known  the 

spring 

Poor  with  such  sudden  deluges  of  light 
Into  the  middle  summer  ;  for  that  day 
Love,  rising,  shook   his  wings,  and 

charged  the  winds 
With  spiced  May-sweets  from  bound  to 

bound,  and  blew 
Fresh  fire  into  the  sun,  and  from 

within 

Burst  thro'  the  heated  buds,  and  sent 
his  soul 

Into  the  songs  of  birds,  and  touch'd 
far-off  [with  flame 

His  mountain-altars,  his  high  hills, 
Milder  and  purer. 

Thro'  the  rocks  we  wound  : 
The  great  pine   shook  with  lonely 

sounds  of  joy 
That  came  on  the  sea-wind.   As  moun, 

tain  streams 
Our  bloods  ran  free :  the  sunshine 

seem'd  to  brood 
More  warmly  on  the  heart  than  on  the 

brow. 

We  often  paused,  and,  looking  back, 
we  saw 

The  clefts  and  openings  in  the  moun- 
tains fill'd 
With  the  blue  valley  and  the  glisten- 
ing brooks,  [love  ! 
And  all  the  low  dark  groveSj,  a  land  of 
A  land  of  promise,  a  land  of  memory, 
A  land  of  promise  flowing  with  the 
milk 

And  honey  of  delicious  memories  ! 
And  down  to  sea,  and  far  as  eye  could 
ken, 

Each  way  from  verge  to  verge  a  Holy 
Land,  [^^7* 
Still  growing  holier  as  you  near'd  th« 
For  there  the  Temple  stood. 

When  we  have  reach'd 
The  grassy  platform  on  some  hill,  I 
stoop'd. 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


563 


1  gather'd  the  wild  herbs,  and  for  her 
brows 

And  mine  made  garlands  of  the  self- 
same flower, 

Which  she  took  smiling,  and  with  my 
work  thus 

Crown'd  her  clear  forehead.  Once  or 
twice  she  told  me 

/For  I  remember  all  things)  to  let  grow 

The  flowers  that  run  poison  in  their 
veins. 

She  said,  The  evil  flourish  in  the 
world." 

Then  playfully  she  gave  herself  the 
lie— 

*'  Nothing  in  nature  is  uiibeautiful ; 
So,  brother,  pluck,  and  spare  not."  So 
I  wove 

Ev'n   the    dull-blooded  poppy-stem, 

whose  flower, 
Hued  with  the  scarlet  of  a  fierce  sun- 
rise, 

Like  to  the  wild  youth  of  an  evil  prince. 
Is  without  sweetness,  but  who  crowns 
himself 

Above  the  secret  poisons  of  his  heart 
In  his  old  age."   A  graceful  thought 
of  hers 

Grav'n  on  my  fancy  !   And  oh,  how 

like  a  nymph, 
A  stately  mountain  nymph,  she  look'd  ! 

how  native 
Unto  the  hills  she  trod  on  !    While  I 

gazed. 

My  coronal  slowly  disentwined  itself 
And  fell  between  us  both  ;  tho'  while 
I  gazed 

My  spirit  leap'd  as  with  those  thrills 
of  bliss 

That  strike  across  the  soul  in  prayer, 

and  show  us 
That  we  are  surely  heard.  Methought 

a  light 

Burst  from  the  garland  I  had  wov'n, 

and  stood 
A  solid  glory  on  her  bright  black  hair ; 
A  light  methought  broke  from  her  dark, 

dark  eyes. 
And  shot  itself  into  the  singing  winds; 
A  mystic  light  flash'd  ev'n  from  her 

white  robe  [about 
As  from  a  glass  in  the  sun,  and  fell 
My  footsteps  on  the  mountains. 

Last  we  came 


To  what  our  people  call  "  The  Hill  of 
Woe.'" 

A  bridge  is  there,  that,  look'd  at  from 
beneath. 

Seems  but  a  cobweb  filament  to  link 
The  yawning  of  an  earthquake-cloven 
chasm. 

And  thence  one  night,  when  all  the 

winds  were  loud, 
A  woful  man  (for  so  the  story  went) 
Had  thrust  his  wife  and  child  and 

dash'd  himself 
Into  the  dizzy  depth  below.  Below, 
Fierce  in  the  strength  of  far  descent,  a 

stream 

Flies  with  a  shatter'd  foam  along  the 
chasm. 

The    path    was  perilous,  loosely 
strewn  with  crags  : 
We  mounted  slowly  ;  yet  to  both  there 
came 

The  joy  of  life  in  steepness  overcome, 
And  victories  of  assent,  and  looking 
down 

On  all  that  had  look'd  down  on  us ; 
and  joy 

In  breathing  nearer  heaven  ;  and  joy 
to  me, 

High  over  all  the  azure-circled  earth, 
To  breathe  with  her  as  if  in  heaven 
itself ; 

And  more  than  joy  that  I  to  her  be- 
came 

Her  guardian  and  her  angel,  raising 
her 

Still  higher,  past  all  peril,  until  she 
saw 

Beneath  her  feet  the  region  far  away. 
Beyond  the  nearest  mountain's  bosky 
brows. 

Burst  into  open  prospect  —  heath  and 
hill. 

And  hollow  lined  and  wooded  to  the 
lips, 

And  steep-down  walls  of  battlemented 
rock 

Gilded  with  broom,  or  shatter'd  inta 
spires. 

And  glory  of  broad  waters  interfused, 
Whence  rose  as  it  were  breath  and 

steam  of  gold. 
And  over  all  the  great  wood  rioting 
And  climbing,  streak'd  or  starr'd  at 

intervals 


564 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


With  falling  brook  or  blossom'd  busli 

—  and  last, 
Framing  the  mighty  landscape  to  the 

west, 

A  purple  range  of  mountain-cones,  be- 
tween [bursts 
Whose  interspaces  gush'd  in  blinding 
The  incorporate  blaze  of  sun  and  sea. 

At  length 

Descending  from  the  point  and  stand- 
ing both, 

There  on  the  tremulous  bridge,  that 

from  beneath 
Had  seem'd  a  gossamer  filament  up  in 

air, 

We  paused  amid  the  splendor.  All 
the  west 

And  e'en  unto  the  middle  south  was 
ribb'd 

And  barr'd  with  bloom  on  bloom.  The 

sun  below, 
Held  for  a  space  'twixt  cloud  and 

wave,  shower'd  down 
Rays  of  a  mighty  circle,  weaving  over 
That  various  wilderness  a  tissue  of 

light 

Unparallel'd.   On  the  other  side,  the 
moon, 

Half  melted  into  thin  blue  air,  stood 
still. 

And  pale  and  fibrous  as  a  wither'd 
leaf, 

Nor  yet  endured  in  presence  of  His 
eyes 

To  indue  his  lustre  ;   most  unlover- 
like. 

Since  in  his  absence  full  of  light  and 
joy. 

And  giving  light  to  others.    But  this 
most, 

Next  to  her  presence  whom  I  loved  so 
well. 

Spoke  loudly  even  into  my  inmost 
heart 

As  to  my  outward  hearing  :  the  loud 
stream, 

Forth  issuing  from  his  portals  in  the 
crag 

(A  visible  link  unto  the  home  of  my 
heart), 

Kan  amber  toward  the  west,  and  nigh 
the  sea 

Parting  my  own  loved  mountains  was 
received, 


Shorn  of  its  strength,  into  the  sym- 
pathy 

Of  that  small  bay,  which  out  to  open 
main 

Glow'd  intermingling  close  beneath 
the  sun. 

Spirit  of  Love  !  that  little  hour  was 
bound 

Shut  in  from  Time,  and  dedicate  to 
thee  : 

Thy  fires  from  heaven  had  touch'd  it, 
and  the  earth 

They  fell  on  became  hallow'd  ever- 
more. 

We  turn'd  :  our  eyes  met :  hers  were 

bright,  and  mine 
Were  dim  with  floating  tears,  that 

shot  the  sunset 
In  lightnings  round  me  ;  and  my  name 

was  borne 
Upon  her    breath.    Henceforth  my 

name  has  been 
A  hallow'd  memory  like  the  names  of 

old, 

A  centred,  glory-circled  memory. 
And  a  peculiar  treasure,  brooking  not 
Exchange  or  currency  :  and  in  that 
hour 

A  hope  flow'd  round  me,  like  a  golden 
mist 

Charm'd  amid  eddies  of  melodious 
airs, 

A  moment,  ere  the  onward  whirlwind 

shatter  it, 
Waver'd  and  floated  —  which  was  less 

than  Hope, 
Because  it  lack'd  the  power  of  perfect 

Hope ; 

But  which  was  more  and  higher  than 
all  Hope, 

Because  ail  other  Hope  had  lower  aim; 
Even  that  this  name  to  which  her 

gracious  lips 
Did  lend  sucli  gentle  utterance,  this 

one  name, 
In  some  obscure  hereafter,  might  in- 

wreathe 

(How  lovelier,  nobler  then  !)  her  life, 
her  love. 

With  my  life,  love,  soul,  spirit,  and 
heart  and  strength. 

Brother,"  she  said,  "let  this  b« 
call'd  henceforth 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 
and  I  replied,  "  O 


565 


The  Hill  of  Hope 
sister, 

My  will  is  one  with  thine  ;  the  Hill  of 
Hope." 

Nevertheless,  we  did  not  change  the 
name. 

I  did  not  speak  ;  1  could  not  speak 
my  love. 

Love  lieth  deep  :  Love  dwells  not  in 

lip-depths. 
Love  wraps  his  wings  on  either  side 

the  heart, 
Constraining  it  with  kisses  close  and 

warm. 

Absorbing  all  the  incense  of  sweet 
thoughts 

So  that  they  pass  not  to  the  shrine  of 
sound. 

Else  had  the  life  of  that  delighted 
hour 

Drunk  in  the  largeness  of  the  utter- 
ance 

Of  Love  ;  but  how  should  Earthly 
measure  mete 

The  Heavenly-unmeasured  or  unlimit- 
ed Love, 

Who  scarce  can  tune  his  high  majestic 
sense 

Unto  the  thunder-song  that  wheels 

the  spheres, 
Scarce  living  in  the  ^Eolian  harmony, 
And  flowing  odor  of  the  spacious  air, 
Scarce  housed  within  the  circle  of  this 

Earth, 

Be  cabin'd  up  in  words  and  syllables. 
Which  pass  with  that  which  breathes 

them  ?   Sooner  Earth 
Might  ^o    round  Heaven,  and  the 

strait  girth  of  Time 
Inswathe  the  fullness  of  Eternity, 
Than  language  grasp  the  infinite  of 

Love. 

O  day  which  did  enwomb  that  happy 
hour, 

Thou  art  blessed  in  the  years,  divinest 
day  ! 

O  Genius  of  that  hour  which  dost  up- 
uold 

Thy  coronal  of  glory  like  a  God, 
Amid  thy  melancholy  mates  far-seen, 
Who  walk  before  thee,  ever  turning 
round 


To  gaze  upon  thee  till  their  ey*js  are 
dim 

With  dwelling  on  the  light  and  depth 
of  thine, 

Thy  name  is  ever  worshipp'd  among 
hours  ! 

Had  I  died  then,  1  had  not  seeni'd  to 
die. 

For  bliss  stood  round  me  like  the  light 

of  Heaven  — 
Had  1  died  then,  I  had  not  known  the 

death  ; 

Yea  had  the  Power  from  whose  right 
hand  the  light 

Of  life  issueth,  and  from  whose  left 
hand  floweth 

The  Shadow  of  Death,  perennial  efflu- 
ences, 

Whereof  to  all  that  draw  the  whole- 
some air 

Somewhile  the  one  musl  overflow  the 
other  ; 

Then  had  he  stemm'd  my  day  with 

night,  and  driven 
My  current  to  the  fountain  whence  it 

sprang, — 
Even  his  own  abiding  excellence, — 
On  me,  methinks,  that  shock  of  gloom 

had  fall'n 
Unfelt,  and  in  this  glory  I  had  merged 
The    other,  like   the   sun    I  gazed 

upon, 

Which  seeming  for  the  moment  due  to 
death, 

And  dipping  his  head  low  beneath  the 
verge, 

Yet  bearing  round  about  him  his  own 
day, 

In  confidence  of  unabated  strength, 
Steppetli  from   Heaven  to  Heaven, 

from  light  to  light, 
And  holdeth  his  undimmed  forehead 

far 

Into  a  clearer  zenith,  pure  of  cloud. 

We  trod  the  shadow  of  the  down- 
ward hill ; 

We  past  from  light  to  dark.  On  the 
other  side 

Is  scoop'd  a  cavern  and  a  mountain 
hall. 

Which  none  have  fathom'd.  If  you 
go  far  in 

(The  country  people  rumor)  you  may 
hear 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


S66 

The  moaning  of  the  woman  and  the 
child, 

Shut  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the 
rock. 

I  too  have  heard  a  sound  —  perchance 

of  streams 
Running  far  on  within  its  inmost 

halls, 

The  home  of  darkness ;  but  the  cavern- 
mouth, 

Half  overtrailed  with  a  wanton  weed. 
Gives  birth  to  a  brawling  brook,  that 

passing  lightly 
Adown    a  natural  stair  of  tangled 

roots, 

Is  presently  received  in  a  sweet  grave 
Of  eglantines,  a  place  of  burial 
Far  lovlier  than  its  cradle  ;  for  un- 
seen. 

But  taken  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
place. 

It  makes  a  constant  bubbling  melody 
That  drowns  the  nearer  echoes.  Lower 
down 

Spreads  out  a  little  lake,  that,  flooding, 
leaves 

Low  banks  of  yellow  sand ;  and  from 
the  woods 

That  belt  it  rise  three  dark,  tall  cy- 
presses, —  [woe. 

Three  cypresses,  symbols  of  mortal 

That  men  plant  over  graves. 

Hither  we  came. 
And  sitting  down  upon  the  golden 
moss. 

Held  converse  sweet  and  low  —  low 

converse  sweet. 
In  which  our  voices  bore  least  part. 

The  wind 

Told  a  love  tale  beside  us,  how  he 
woo'd 

The  waters,  and  the  waters  answering 
lisp'd  [love. 
To  kisses  of  the  wind,  that,  sick  with 
Fainted  at  intervals,  and  grew  again 
To  utterance  of  passion.  Ye  cannot 
shape 

Fancy  so  fair  as  is  this  memory. 
Mokthought  all  excellence  that  ever 
was 

Hai  drawn  herself  from  many  thou- 
sand years, 

And  all  the  separate  Edens  of  this 
earth, 


To  centre  in  this  place  and  time.  I 
listen'd, 

And  her  words  stole  with  most  pre- 
vailing sweetness 

Into  my  heart,  as  thronging  fancies 
come 

To  boys  and  girls  when  summer  days 
are  new, 

And  soul  and  heart  and  body  are  all 
at  ease  : 

What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all  ? 
It  was  so  happy  an  hour,  so  sweet  a 
place. 

And  I  was  as  the  brother  of  her  blood, 
And  by  that  name  I  moved  upon  her 
breath ; 

Dear  name,  which  had  too  much  of 

nearness  in  it 
And  heralded  the  distance  of  this 

time  ! 

At  first  her  voice  was  very  sweet  and 
low. 

As  if  she  were  afraid  of  utterance  ; 
But  in  the  onward  current  of  her 
speech 

(As  echoes  of  the  hollow-banked 
brooks 

Are  fashion'd  by  the  channel  which 
they  keep), 

Her  words  did  of  their  meaning  bor- 
row sound. 

Her  cheek  did  catch  the  color  of  her 
words. 

I  heard  and  trembled,  yet  I  could  but 
hear  ? 

My  heart  paused  —  my  raised  eyelids 

would  not  fall, 
But  still  1  kept  my  eyes  upon  the  sky. 
I  seem'd  the  only  part  of  Time  stood 

still, 

And  saw  the  motion  of  all  other 
things  ; 

While  her  words,  syllable  by  syllable, 
Like  water,  drop  by  drop,  upon  my 
ear 

Fell  ;  and  I  wish'd,  yet  wish'd  her  not 
to  speak  ;  [wish. 
But  she  spake  on,  for  I  did  name  no 
What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all 
Her  maiden  dignities  of  Hope  and 
Love  — 

Perchance,*'  she  said,  '*  return'd.'* 
Even  then  the  stars 
Did  tremble  in  their  stations  as  J 
gazed ; 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


But  she  spake  on,  for  I  did  name  no 
wish, 

No  wish  —  no  hope.   Hope  was  not 

wholly  dead, 
But  breathing  hard  at  the  approach  of 

Death,  — 
Camilla,  my  Camilla,  who  was  mine 
No  longer  in  the  dearest  sense  of 

mine  — 

For  all  the  secret  of  her  inmost  heart. 
And  all  the  maiden  empire  of  her 
mind. 

Lay  like  a  map  before  me,  and  I  saw 
Tiiere,  where  1  hoped  myself  to  reign 
as  king. 

There,  where  that  day  I  crown'd  my- 
self as  king. 

There  in  my  realm  and  even  on  my 
throne, 

Another  '  Then  it  seem'd  as  tho'  a 
link 

Of  some  tight  chain  within  my  inmost 
frame 

Was  riven  in  twain :  that  life  I  heeded 
not 

Flow'd  from  me,  and  the  darkness  of 

the  grave. 
The  darkness  of  the  grave  and  utter 

night, 

Did  swallow  up  my  vision ;  at  her 
feet, 

Even  the  feet  of  her  1  loved,  I  f  9ll, 
Smit   with   exceeding    sorrow  unto 
Death. 

Then  had  the  earth  beneath  me 
yawning  cloven 
With  such  a  sound  as  when  an  iceberg 
splits 

From  cope  to  base— had  Heaven  from 
all  her  doors. 

With  all  her  golden  thresholds  clash- 
ing, roll'd 

Her  heaviest  thunder— I  had  lain  as 
dead, 

Alute,  blind  and  motionless  as  then  I 
lay ; 

Dead,  for  henceforth  there  was  no  life 
for  me  ! 

Mute,  for  henceforth  what  use  were 

words  to  me  ! 
Blind,  for  the  day  was  as  the  j,night  to 

me  ' 

The  night  to  me  was  kinder  than  the 
day; 


The  night  in  jiity  took  away  my  day, 
Because  my  grief  as  yet  was  newly 
born 

Of  eyes  too  weak  to  look  upon  the 
light ; 

And  thro'  the  hasty  notice  of  the  ear 
Frail  Life  was  startled  from  the  tender 
love 

Of  him  she  brooded  over.    Would  I 
had  lain 

Until  the  plaited  ivy-tress  had  wound 
liound  my  worn  limbs,  and  the  wild 

brier  had  driven 
Its  knotted  thorns  thro'  my  un paining 

brows. 

Leaning  its  roses  on  my  faded  eyes. 
The  wind  had  blown  above  me,  and 
the  rain 

Had  faU'n  upon  nie,  and  the  gilded 
snake 

Had  nestled  in  his  bosom-throne  of 
Love, 

But  1  had  been  at  rest  for  evermore. 

Long  time  entrancement  held  me. 
All  too  soon 
Life  (like  a  wanton  too-officious  friend, 
Who  will  not  hear  denial,  vain  and 
rude 

With  proffer  of  unwished-for  services) 
Entering  all  the  avenues  of  sense 
Past  thro'  into  his  citadel,  the  brain, 
With  hated  warmth  of  apprehensive- 
ness. 

And  lirst  the  chillness  of  the  sprinkled  - 
brook 

Smote  on  my  brows,  and  then  I  seem'd 
to  hear 

Its  murmur,  as  the  drowning  seaman 
hears. 

Who  with  his  head  below  the  surface 
dropt 

Listens  the  muffled  booming  indistinct 
Of  the  confused  floods,  and  dimly 
knows 

His  head  shall  rise  no  more  :  and  then 
came  in 

The  white  light  of  the  weary  moon 
above, 

Diffused  and  molten  into  flaky  cloud. 
Was  my  sight  drunk  that  it  did  shape 
to  me 

Him  who  should  own   that  name? 

Were  it  not  well 
,  If  so  be  that  the  echo  of  that  name 


568 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Ringing  within  tlie  fancy  had  updrawn 
A  fashion  and  a  phantasm  of  the  form 
It  should  attacli  to  ?   Phantom  !— had 

'   the  ghastliest 
That  ever  lusted  for  a  body,  sucking 
The  fo  il  steam  of  the  grave  to  thicken 
by  it, 

There  in  the  shuddering  moonlight 

brought  its  face 
And  what  it  has  for  eyes  as  close  to 

miae 

As  he  did  —  better  that  than  his,  than 
he 

The  friend,  the  neighbor,  Lionel,  the 
beloved. 

The  loved,  the  lover,  the  happy  Lionel. 
The  low-voiced,  tender-spirited  Lionel, 
All  joy,  to  whom  my  agony  was  a  joy. 
Oh  how  her  choice  did  leap  forth  from 
his  eyes ! 

Oh  how  her  love  did  clothe  itself  in 
smiles 

About  his  lips!  and — not  one  moment's 
grace — 

Then  when  the  effect  weigh'd  seas 

upon  my  head 
To  come  my  way !  to  twit  me  with  the 

cause ! 

Was  not  the  land  as  free  thro'  all 
her  ways 

To  him  as  me  ?   Was  not  his  wont  to 
walk 

Between  the  going  light  and  growing 
night? 

Had  1  not  learnt  my  loss  before  he 
came  ? 

Could  that  be  more  because  he  came 
my  way? 

Why  should  he  not  come  my  way  if  he 
would  ? 

And  yet  to-night,  to-night— when  all 

my  wealth 
Flash'd  from  me  in  a  moment  and  I 

fell 

Beggar'd  forever — why  s houl d\\Q  come 
my  way 

Robed  in  those  robes  of  light  I  must 
not  wear. 

With  that  great  crown  of  beams  about 

his  brows — 
Come  like  an  angel  to  a  damned  soul. 
To  tell  him  of  the  bliss  he  had  with 

God- 
Come  like  a  careless  and  a  greedy  heir 


That  scarce  can  wait  the  reading  of  the 
will 

Before  he  takes  possession  ?  Was 

mine  a  mood 
To  be  invaded  rudely,  and  not  rather 
A  sacred,  secret,  unapproached  woe, 
Unspeakable?  I  was  Fhut  up  with 

Grief ; 

She  took  the  body  of  my  past  delight, 
Nardedand  swathed  and  balm'd  it  for 
herself. 

And  laid  it  in  a  sepulchre  of  rock 
Never  to  rise  again.   1  was  led  mute 
Into  her  temple  like  a  sacrifice  ; 
1  was  the  High  Priest  in  her  holiest 
place. 

Not  to  be  loudly  broken  in  upon. 

O  friend,  thoughts  deep  and  heavy 
as  these  well  nigh 
O'erbore  the  limits  of  my  brain  :  but 
he 

Bent  o'er  me,  and  my  neck  his  arm 
upstay'd. 

I  thought  it  was  an  adder's  fold,  and 
once 

I  strove    to   disengage  myself,  but 
fail'd. 

Being  so  feeble  :  she  bent  above  me, 
too ; 

Wan  was  her  cheek  ;  for  whatso'er  of 
blight 

Lives  in  the  dewy  touch  of  pity  had 
made 

The  red  rose  there  a  pale  one — and  her 
eyes — 

I  saw  the  moonlight  glitter  on  their 
tears —  [ful  rain 

And  some  few  drops  of  that  distress- 
Fell  on  my  face,  and  her  long  ringlets 
moved. 

Drooping  and  beaten  by  the  breeze, 

and  brush'd 
My  fallen  forehead  in  their  to  and  fro, 
For  in  the  sudden  anguish  of  lier  heart 
Loosed  from  their  simple  thrall  they 

had  flow'd  abroad. 
And  floated  on  and  parted  round  her 

neck, 

Mantling  her  form  half  way.  She, 

when  I  woke. 
Something  she  ask'd,  I  know  not  what, 

and  ask'd, 
Unanswer'd,  since  I  spake  not ;  for  the 

sound 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE, 


569 


Of  that  dear  voice  so  musically  low, 
And  now  first  heard  with  any'sense  of 
pain, 

As  it  had  taken  life  away  before, 
Choked  all  the  syllables,  that  strove  to 
rise 

From  my  full  heart. 

The  blissful  lover,  too, 
From  his  great  board  of  happiness 
distill'd 

Some  drops  of  solace  ;  like  a  vain  rich 
man, 

That,  having  always  prosper'd  in  the 
world. 

Folding  his  hands,  deals  comfortable 
words 

To  hearts  wounded  forever;  yet,  in 
truth, 

Fair  speech  was  his  and  delicate  of 
phrase, 

Falling  in  whispers  on  the  sense,  ad- 
dress'd 

More  to  the  inward  than  the  outward 
ear, 

As  rain  of  the  midsummer  midnight 
soft, 

Scarce  heard,  recalling  fragrance  and 

the  green 
Of  the  dead  spring  :  but  mine  was 

wholly  dead, 
No  bud,  no  leaf,  no  flower,  no  fruit  for 

me. 

Yet  who  had  done,  or  who  had  suffer'd 
wrong  ? 

And  why  was  I  to  darken  their  pure 
love, 

If,  as  I  found,  they  two  did  love  each 
other, 

Because  my  own  was  darkened  ?  Why 
was  I 

To  cross  between  their  happy  star  and 
them? 

To  stand  a  shadow  by  their  shining 
doors, 

And  vex  them  with  my  darkness? 

Did  I  love  her  ? 
Ye  know  that  I  did  love  her  ;  to  this 

present 

My  f uU-orb'd  love  has  waned  not.  Did 

I  love  her, 
And  could  I  look  upon  her  tearful 

eyes  ? 

What  had  she  done  to  weep?  Why 
should  she  weep  ? 


0  innocent  of  spirit — let  my  heart 
Break  rather — whom  the  gentlest  airs 

of  Heaven 
Should  kiss  with  an  unwonted  gentle- 
ness. 

Her  love  did  murder  mine?  Wnat 
then  ?  She  deem'd 

1  wore  a  brother's  mind ;  she  call'd 

me  brother  • 
She  told  me  all  her  love  :  she  shall  not 
weep. 

The  brightness  of  a  burning  thought, 
awhile 

In  battle  with  the  glooms  of  my  dark 
will, 

Moon-like  emerged,  and  to  itself  lit  up 
There  on  the  depth  of  an  unfathom*a 
woe 

Reflex  of  action.   Starting  up  at  once. 
As  from  a  dismal  dream  of  my  own 
death, 

I,  for  1  loved  her,  lost  my  love  in 
Love: 

I,  for  I  loved  her,  graspt  the  hand  she 
lov'd. 

And  laid  it  in  her  own,  and  sent  my 
cry 

Thro'  the  blank  night  to  Him  who  lov- 
ing made 

The  happy  and  the  unhappy  love,  that 
He 

Would  hold  the  hand  of  blessing  over 
them, 

Lionel,  the  happy,  and  her,  and  her, 

his  bride  ! 
Let  them  so  love  that  men  and  boys 

may  say, 

Lo  !  how  they  love  each  other  !  '*  till 

their  love 
Shall  ripen  to  a  proverb,  unto  all 
Known,  when  their  faces  are  forgot  iu 

the  land — 
One  golden  dream  of  love,  from  which 

may  death  [life 
Awake  them  with  heaven's  music  in  a 
More  living  to  some  happier  happiness, 
Swallowing  its  precedent  in  victory. 
And  as  for  me,  Camilla,  as  for  me, — 
The  dew  of  tears  is  an  unwholesome 

dew, 

They  will  but  sicken  the  sic*:  prant  the 
more. 

Deem  that  I  love  thee  but  as  brothers 
do, 


MO  THE  LOVl 

So  shalt  thou  love  me  still  as  sisters 
do; 

Or  if  thou  dream  aught  farther,  dream 
but  how 

I  could  have  loved  thee,  had  there  been 
none  else 

To  love  as  lovers,  loved  again  by  thee. 

Or  this,  or  somewhat  like  to  this,  I 
spake, 

When  1  beheld  her  weep  so  ruefully  ; 
For  sure  my  love  should  ne'er  indue 
the  front 

And  mask  of   Hate,   who  lives  on 

others'  moans. 
Shall  I^ove  pledge  Hatred  in  her  bitter 

draughts. 

And  batten  on   her  poisons?  Love 
forbid  ! 

Love  passeth  not  the  threshold  pf  cold 
Hate, 

And  Mate  is  strange  beneath  the  roof 
of  Love. 

O  Love,  if  thou  be'st  Love,  dry  up 

these  tears 
Shed  for  the  love  of  Love ;  for  tho' 

mine  image, 
The  subject  of  thy  power,  be  cold  in 

her. 

Yet,  like  cold  snow,  it  melteth  in  the 
source 

Of  these  sad  tears,  and  feeds  their 

downward  flow. 
So  Love,  arraign'd  to  judgment  and  to 

death. 

Received  unto  himself  a  part  of  blame. 
Being  guiltless,  as  an  innocent  pris- 
oner. 

Who,  when  the  woful  sentence  hath 

been  past. 
And  all  the  clearness  of  his  fame  hath 

gone  [man. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  curse  of 
First  falls  asleep  in  swoon,  wherefrom 

awaked, 

And  looking  round  upon  his  tearful 
friends. 

Forthwith  and  in  his  agony  conceives 
A  shameful  sense  as  of  a  cleaving 
crime — 

For  whence  without  some  guilt  should 
such  grief  be  ? 

So  died  that  hour,  and  fell  into  the 
abysm 


'.R'S  TALE. 

Of  forms  outworn,  but  not  to  me  out« 
worn. 

Who  never  hail'd  another— was  there 
one  ? 

There  might  be  one— one  other,  worth 
the  life 

That  made  it  sensible.  So  that  hour 
died 

Like  odor  rapt  into  the  winged  wind 
Borne  into  alien  lands  and  far  away. 

There  be  some  hearts  so  airily  built, 
that  they, 

They — when  their  love  is  wreck'd— if 

Love  can  wreck  — 
On  that  sharp  ridge  of  utmost  doom 

ride  highly 
Above  the  perilous  seas  of  Change  and 

Chance ; 

Nay,  more,  hold  out  the  lights  of 

cheerfulness  ; 
As  the  tall  ship,  that  many  a  dreary 

year 

Knit  to  some  dismal  sand-bank  far  at 
sea. 

All  thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  utter 
dark, 

Showers  slanting  light  upon  the  dolo- 
rous wave. 

For  me — what  light,  what  gleam  on 
those  black  ways 

Where  Love  could  walk  with  banish'd 
Hope  no  more  ? 

It  was  ill  done  to  part  you,  Sisters 
fair  ; 

Love's  a(.rms  were  wreath'd  about  the 

neck  of  Hope, 
And  Hope  kiss'd  Love,  and  Love  drew 

in  her  breath 
In  that  close  kiss,  and  drank  her  whis- 

per'd  tales. 
They  said  that  Love  would  die  wheiv 

Ho[)e  was  gone, 
And  Love  mourn'd  long,  and  sorrow'd 

after  Hope  ; 
At  last  she  sought  out  Memory,  and 

they  trod 

The  same  old  paths  where  Love  had 

walk'd  with  Hope 
And  Memory  fed  the  soul  of  Love  with 

tears. 

II. 

From  that  time  forth  I  would  not  see 
her  more ; 


THE  LOVER'y  TALE. 


57\ 


'■^ut  many  wearj'  moons  I  lived  alone — 
iVlone,  and  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
forest. 

Sometimes  upon  the  hills  beside  the 
sea 

All  day  I  watch'd  the  floating  isles  of 
shade, 

And  sometimes  on  the  shore,  upon  the 
sands 

Insensibly  I  drew  her  name,  until 
The  meaning  of  the  letters  shot  into 
My  brain  ;  anon  the  wanton  billow 
wash'd 

Them  over,  till  they  faded  like  my  love. 
The  hollow  caverns  heard  me  —  the 

black  brooks 
Of  the  mid-forest  heard  me — tlje  soft 

winds, 

Laden  with  thistle  down  and  seeds  of 
flowers, 

Paused  in  their  course  to  hear  me,  for 
my  voice 

Was  all  of  thee  :  the  merry  linnet 
knew  me. 

The  squirrel  knew  me,  and  the  dragon- 
fly, 

Shot  by  me  like  a  flash  of  purple  fire. 
The   rough  brier  tore  my  bleeding 

palms  ;  the  hemlock 
Brow-high,  did  strike  my  forehead  as 

I  past ; 

Yet  trod  I  not  the  wild  flower  in  my 
path, 

Kor  bruised  the  wild  bird's  egg. 

*  Was  this  the  end  ? 

Why  grew  we  then  together  in  one 
plot? 

Why  fed  we  from  one  fountain  ?  drew 
one  sun  ? 

Why  were  our  mothers  branches  of  one 
stem  ? 

Why  were  we  one  in  all  things,  save  in 
that 

Where  to  have  been  one  had  been  the 

cope  and  crown 
Of  all  1  hoped  and  fear'd  ? — if  that 

same  nearness 
Were  father  to  this  distance,  and  that 

one 

Vaunt  courier  to  this  double  ?  if  Af- 
fection 

Living  slew  Love,  and  Sympathy  hew'd 
out 

The  bosom-sepulchre  of  Sympathy  ? 


Chiefly  I  sought  the  cavern  and  the 
hill 

Where  last  we  roam'd  together,  for  the 
sound 

Of  the  loud  stream  was  pleasant,  and 
the  wind 

Came  wooingly  with  woodbiae  smells. 

Sometimes 
All  day  I  sat  within  the  cavern-mouth, 
Fixing  my  eyes  on  those  three  cypress- 
cones 

That  spired  above  the  wood  ;  and 
with  mad  hand 

Tearing  the  bright  leaves  of  the  ivy- 
screen, 

I  cast  them  in  the  noisy  brook  beneath, 
And  watch'd  them  till  they  vanish'd 

from  my  sight 
Beneath  the  bower  of  wreathed  eglan- 
tines : 

And  all  the  fragments  of  the  living 
rock 

(Huge  blocks,  which  some  old  trem- 
bling of  the  world 

Had  loosen'd  from  the  mountain,  till 
they  fell 

Half  digging  their  own  graves)  these 

in  my  agony 
Did  I  make  bare  of  all  the  golden  moss, 
Wherewith  the  dashing  runnel  in  the 

spring  [brain 
Had  liveried  them  all  over.  In  my 
The  spirit  seem'd  to  flag  from  thought 

to  thought. 
As  moolight  wandering  thro'  a  mist  : 

my  blood 

Crept  like  marsh  drains  thro'  all  my 

languid  limbs  ; 
The  motions  of  my  heart  seem'd  far 

within  me, 
Unfrequent,  low,  as   tho'  it  told  its 

pulses  ; 

And  yet  it  shook  me,  that  my  frame 

would  shudder. 
As  if  't  were  drawn  asunder  by  the 

rack. 

But  over  the  deep  graves  of  Hope  and 
Fear, 

And  all  the  broken  palaces  of  the  Past, 
Brooded  one  master-passion  evermore, 
Like  to  a  low-hung  and  a  fiery  sky 
Above  some  fair  metropolis,  eartb- 

shock'd, — 
Hung  round  with  ragged   rims  and 

burning  folds, — 


572 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE, 


Embathing  all  with  wild  and  wofiil 
hues. 

Great  hills  of  ruins,  and  collapsed 
masses 

Of  thunder-shaken  columns  indistinct, 
And  fused  together  in  the  tyrannous 
light— 

Kuins,  the  ruin  of  all  my  life  and 
me  ! 

Sometimes  I  thought  Camilla  was  no 
more, 

Some  one  had  told  she  was  dead,  and 
ask'd  me 

If  I  would  see  her  burial  ;  then  I 
seem'd 

To  rise,  and  through  the  forest-shadow 
borne 

With  more  than  mortal  swiftness,  I  ran 
down 

The  steepy  sea-bank,  till  I  came  upon 
The  rear  of  a  procession,  curving  round 
The  silver-sheeted  bay  :  in  front  of 
which 

Six  stately  virgins,  all  in  white,  upbare 
A  broad  earth-sweeping  pall  of  whitest 
lawn. 

Wreathed  round  tlie  bier  with  gar- 
lands :  in  the  distajice. 

From  out  the  yellow  woods  Tipon  the 
hill 

Look'd  forth  the  summit  and  the  pin- 
nacles 

Of  a  gray  steeple — thence  at  intervals 
A  low  bell  tolling.    All  the  pageantry, 
Save  those  six  virgins  which  upheld 
the  bier. 

Were  stoled  from  head  to  foot  in  flow- 
ing black  ; 

One  walk'd  abreast  with  me,  and  veil'd 
his  brow. 

And  he  was  loud  in  weeping  and  in 
praise 

Of  her  he  follow'd  :  a  strong  sympathy 
Shook  all  my  soul  :  I  flung  myself 

upon  him 
In  tears  and  cries  :  I  told  him  all  my 

love, 

How  [  had  loved  her  from  the  first  ; 
wliereat 

He  shrank  and  howl'd,  and  from  his 

brow  drew  back 
His  liand  to  push  me  from  him  ;  and 

the  fa<;e, 
The  very  face  and  form  of  Lionel 


Flash'd  thro'  my  eyes  into  my  inner 

most  brain. 
And  at  his  feet  I  seemed  to  faint  and 

fall. 

To  fall  and  die  away.    I  could  not  rise 
Albeit  I  strove  to  follow.   They  past 
on, 

The  lordly  Phantasms  !  in  their  float- 
ing folds 

They  past  and  were  no  more  :  but  I 

had  fallen 
Prone  by  the  dashing  runnel  on  the 

grass. 

Al  way  the  inaudible  invisible  thouight 
Artificer  and  subject,  lord  and  slave, 
Shaped  by  the  audible  and  visible, 
Moulded  the  audible  and  visible  ; 
All  crisped  sounds  of  wave  and  leaf 

and  wind 
Flatter'd  the  fancy  of  my  fading  brain; 
The  cloud-pavilion'd    element,  the 

wood. 

The  mountain,  the  three  cypresses,  the 
cave. 

Storm,  sunset,  glows  and  glories  of  the 
moon 

Below  black  firs,  when  silent-creeping 
winds 

Laid  the  long  night  in  silver  streaks 
and  bars. 

Were  wrought  into  the  tissue  of  my 
dream  : 

The  moanings  in  the  forest,  the  loud 
brook, 

Cries  of  the  partridge  like  a  rusty  key 
Turn'd  in  a  lock,  owl-whoop  and  dor- 
hawk-whir 
Awoke  me  not,  but  were  a  part  of 
sleep. 

And  voices  in  the  distance  calling  to 
me 

And  in  my  vision  bidding  me  dream  on. 
Like  sounds  without  the  twilight  realm 

of  dreams, 
Which  wander  round  the  bases  of  the 

hills. 

And  murmur  at  the  low-dropt  eaves  of 
sleep, 

Half-entering    the    portals.  Often- 
times 

The  vision  had  fair  prelude,  in  the  end 
Opening  on  darkness,  stately  vestibules 
To  caves  and  shows  of  Death  :  whether 
the  mind, 


THE  L  O  VER '  S  TALE, 


573 


With  some  revenge,— even  to  itself 

unknown, — 
Made  strange  division  of  its  suffering 
With  her,  whom  to  have  suffering 

view'd  had  been 
Extremest  pain  ;  or  that  the  c) ear-eyed 

Spirit, 

Being  blunted  in  the  Present,  grew  at 
length 

Prophetical  and  prescient  of  whate'er 
The  Future  had  in  store  :  or  that 

which  most 
Enchains  belief,  the  sorrow  of  my  spirit 
Was  of  so  wide  a  compass  it  took  in 
All  I  had  loved,  and  my  dull  agony, 
Ideally  to  her  transferr'd,  became 
Anguish  intolerable. 

The  day  waned  ; 
Alone  I  sat  with  her  :  about  my  brow 
Her  warm  breath  floated  in  the  utter- 
ance 

Of  silver-chorded  tones  :  her  lips  were 
sunder'd 

With  smiles  of  tranquil  bliss,  which 

broke  in  light 
Like    morning    from  her  eyes — her 

eloquent  eyes 
(As  I  have  seen  them  many  a  hundred 

times). 

Filled  all  with  pure  clear  fire,  thro' 

mine  down  rain'd 
Their  spirit-searching  splendors.    As  a 

vision 

Unto  a  haggard  prisoner,  iron-stay'd 
In  damp  and  dismal  dungeons  under- 
ground, 

Confined   on    points  of  faith,  when 

strength  is  shock 'd 
With  torment,  and  expectancy  of  w^orse 
Upon  the  morrow,  thro'   the  ragged 

walls, 

All  unawares  before  his  half-shut  eyes, 
Comes  in  upon  him  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  with  the  excess  of  sweetness  and 
of  awe, 

Makes  the  heart  tremble,  and  the  sight 
run  over 

Upon  his  steely  gyves  ;  so  those  fair 
eyes 

Shone  on  my  da.^kness,  forms  which 

ever  stood 
Within  the  magic  cirque  of  memory, 
Invisible  but  deathless,  waiting  still 
The  edict  of  the  will  to  re-a  .sume 


The  semblance  of  those  rare  realities 
Of  which  they  were  the  mirrors.  Now 
the  light 

Which  was  their  life  bursts  through 

the  cloud  of  thought 
Keen,  irrepressible. 

It  was  a  room 
Within  /he  summer-house  of  which  I 
spake, 

Hung  round  with  paintings  of  the  sea, 
and  one 

A  vessel  in  mid-ocean,  her  heaved 
prow 

Clambering,  the  mast  bent  and  the 

ravin  wind 
In  her  sail  roaring.   From  the  outer 

day. 

Betwixt  the  close-set  ivies  came  a 
broad 

And  solid  beam  of  isolated  light. 
Crowded  with  driving  atomies,  and  fell 
Slanting  upon  that  picture,  from  prime 
youth 

Well  known  well  loved.    She  drew  it 
long  ago 

Forth-gazing  on  the  waste  and  open 
sea. 

One  morning  when  the  upblown  billow 
ran 

Shoreward  beneath  red  clouds,  and  I 

had  pour'd 
Into  the  shadowing  pencil's  naked 

forms 

Color  and  life  :  it  was  a  bond  and  seal 
Of  friendship,  spoken  of  with  tearful 
smiles ; 

A  monument  of  childhood  and  of  love  ; 
The  p  oesy  of  childhood  ;  my  lost  love 
Symb or d  in  storm.   We  gazed  on  it  to- 
gether 

In  mute  and  glad  remembrance,  and 

each  heart 
Grew  closer  to  the  other,  and  the  eye 
Was  riveted  and  charm-bound,  gazing 

like 

The  Indian  on  a  still-eyed  snake,  low- 
couch'd — 

A  beauty  which  is  death  ;  when  all  at 

once 

That  painted  vessel,  as  with  inner  life. 
Began  to  heave  upon  that  painted  sea ; 
An  earthquake,  my  loud  heart-beats, 

made  the  ground 
Reel  under  us,  and  all  at  once,  soul,  life 


674  THE  LOVl 

And  breath  and  motion,  past  and  flow'd 
away 

To  those  unreal  billows  :  round  and 
round 

A  whirlwind  caught  and  bore  us  ; 
mighty  gyres 

Bapid  and  vast,  of  hissing  spray  wind- 
driven 

Far  thro'  the  dizzy  dark.  Aloud  she 
shriek' d ; 

My  heart  was  cloven  with  pain ;  I 

wound  my  arms 
About  her :  we  whirl'd  giddily  ;  the 

wind 

Sung  ;  but  I  claspt  her  without  fear  : 

her  weight 
Shrank  in  my  grasp,  and  over  my  dim 

eyes, 

And   parted   lips   which   drank  her 

breath,  down  hung 
The  jaws  of  Death  :  1,  groaning,  from 

me  flung 

Her  empty  phantom  :  all  the  sway  and 
whirl 

Of  the  storm  dropt  to  windless  calm, 
and  I 

Down  welter'd  thro*  the  dark  ever  and 
ever. 


III. 

I  CAME  one  day  and  sat  among  the 
stones 

Strewn  in  the  entry  of  the  moaning 
cave ; 

A  morning  air,  sweet  after  rain,  ran 
over 

The  rippling  levels  of  the  lake,  and 
blew 

Coolness  and  moisture  and  all  smells 
of  bud 

And  foliage  from  the  dark  and  dripping 
woods 

Upon  my  fever'd  brows  that  shook  and 
throbb'd 

From  temple  unto  temple.    To  what 
height 

The  day  had  grown  I  know  not.  Then 

came  on  me 
The  hollow  tolling  of  the  bell,  and  all 
The  vision  of  the  bier.   As  heretofore 
I  walk'd  behind  with  one  who  veil'd 

liis  brow. 

Methought  by  slow  degrees  the  sullen 
bell 


R*S  TALE, 

Toll'd  quicker,  and  the  breakers  on 

the  shore 

Sloped  into  louder  surf :  those  that 

went  with  me, 
And  those  that  held  the  bier  before  my 

face. 

Moved  with  one  spirit  round  about  the 
bay, 

Trod  swifter  steps  ;  and  while  I  walk'd 

with  these 
In  marvel  at  that  gradual  change,  I 

thought 

Four  bells  instead  of  one  begrfn  to  ring, 
Four  merry  bells,  four  merry  marriage 
bells, 

In  clanging  cadence  jangling  peal  on 
peal — 

A  long  loud  clash  of  rapid  marriage 
bells. 

Then  those  who  led  the  van,  and  those 
in  rear, 

Kush'd  into  dance,  and  like  wild  Bac- 
chanals 

Fled  onward  to  the  steeple  in  the  woods: 
I,  too,  was  borne  along  and  felt  the 
blast 

Beat  on  my  heated  eyelids  ;  all  at  once 
The  front  rank  made  a  sudden  halt ; 
the  bells 

Lapsed  into  frightful  stillness ;  the 

surge  fell 
From  thunder  into  whispers  ;  those  six 

maids 

With  shrieks  and  ringing  laughter  on 
the  sand 

Threw  down  the  bier  ;  the  woods  upon 
the  hill 

Waved  with  a  sudden  gust  that  sweep- 
ing down 

Took  the  edges  of  the  pall,  and  blew  it 
far 

Until  it  hung,  a  little  silver  cloud 
Over  the  sounding  seas  ;  I  turn'd  :  my 
heart 

Shrank  in  me,  like  a  snow-flake  in  tho 
hand, 

Waiting  to  see  the  settled  countenance 
Of  her  I  lov'd,  adorn'd  with  fading 
flowers. 

But  she  from  out  her  death-like  chrysa- 
lis. 

She  frojn  her  bier,  as  into  fresher  life. 
My  sister,  and  my  cousin,  and  my  love, 
Leapt  lightly  clad  in  bridal  white— hef 
hair 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Studded  with  one  rich  Provence  rose— 
a  light 

Of  smiling  welcome  round  her  lips— her 
eyes 

And  cheeks  as  bright  as  when  she 

climb'd  the  hill. 
One  hand  she  reach'd  to  those  that 

came  behind, 
And  while  I  mused  nor  yet  endured  to 

take 

So  rich  a  prize,  the  man  who  stood  with 
me  * 

Stept  gayly  forward,  throwing  down 

his  robes, 
And  elaspt  her  hand  in  his :  again  the 

bells 

Jangl'd  and  clang'd  :  again  the  stormy 
surf 

Crash' d  in  the  shingle  ;  and  the  whirl- 
ing rout 

Led  by  those  two  rush'd  into  dance,  and 
fled 

Wind-footed  to  the  steeple  in  the  woods, 
Till  they  were  swallow'd  in  the  leafy 
bowers, 

And  I  stood  sole  beside  the  vacant  bier. 

There,  there,  my  latest  vision — then  the 
event  1 

IV. 

THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 

{Another  speaks.) 

He  flies  the  event :  he  leaves  the  event 
to  me  : 

Poor  Julian— how  he  rush'd  away  ;  the 
bells, 

Those  marriage  bells,  echoing  in  ear 

and  heart- 
But  cast  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you 

saw, 

As  who  should  say    Continue."  Well, 
he  had 

One  golden  hour— of  triumph  shall  I 
say? 

Solace  at  least— before  he  left  his  home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that  hour 
of  his  ! 

He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  majestically — 
Restrain'd  himself  quite  to  the  close- 
but  now — 


Whether  they  loere  his  lady's  mar* 
riage  bells, 
Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 
I  never  asked  :  but  Lionel  and  the  girl 
Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came 
again 

Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  the 
pines. 

But  these,  their  gloom,  the  mountains 

and  the  bay 
The  whole  land  weigh'd  him  down  as 

^tna  does 
The  Giant  of  Mythology  :  he  would  go, 
Would  leave  the  land  forever,  and  had 

gone 

Surely,  but  for  a  whisper,  "  Go  not  yet,'* 
Some  warning— sent  divinely,  as  it 
seem'd 

By  that  which  follow'd,  but  of  this  I 
deem 

As  of  the  visions  that  he  told — the  event 
Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after- 
life, 

And  partly  made  them,  tho'  he  knew 
it  not. 

And  thus  he  stayed  and  would  not 

look  at  her — 
No,  not  for  months ;  but,  when  the 

eleventh  moon 
After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover's  bay, 
Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell, 

and  said, 

Would  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life,  but 
found — 

All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to 
him — 

A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear, 
For  that  low  knell  tolling  his  lady 

dead- 
Dead — and  had  lain  three  days  without 

a  pulse ; 

All  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced 
her  dead. 

And  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian's 
land 

They  never  nail  a  dumb  head  up  in 
elm). 

Bore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of 
heaven. 

And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own 
kin. 

What  did  he  then  ?  not  die  :  he  \% 
here  and  hale. 


576 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


Not  plunge  head-foremost  from  the 

moujiiaiji  there, 
And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap  : 

not  he  :  [now, 
He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper 
Thought  that  he  knew  it.    ''This,  I 

stayed  for  this ; 

0  love,  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long. 
Now,  now,  will  I  go  down  into  the  grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone  with  all  I  love, 
And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.   She  is  his  no 

more : 

The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I  go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead." 

The  fancy  stirr'd  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the  dim 
vault, 

And,  making  there  a  sudden  light,  be- 
held 

All  round  about  him  that  which  all 
will  be. 

The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went 
again. 

Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her 
face  ; 

Her  breast  as  in  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which  the 
moon 

Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of  her 
Drown'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of 
the  vault. 

**  It  was  my  wish,'*  he  said,  **  to  pass, 
to  sleep, 

To  rest,  to  be  with  lier — till  the  great 
day 

Peal'd  on  us  with  that  music  which 

rights  all. 
And  raised  us  hand  in  hand."  And 

kneeling  there 
Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once 

was  man, 

Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 
hearts. 

Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a  love 
as  mine —  [her— 
Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 
He  softly  put  liis  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kissed  lier  more  than  once,  till 

helpless  death 
An#  silence  made  liim  bold— nay,  but 
I  wrong  him, 


He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in 
death ; 

But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  heT 
heart, 

'*  O  you  warm  heart,"  he  moaned, ''  not 
even  death 

Can  chill  you  all  at  once  :  "  then,  start- 
ing, thought 

His  dreams  had  come  again.  '*  Do  I 
wake  or  sleep  ? 

Or  am  I  made  immortal,  or  my  love 

Mo  -  tal  once  more  ?  "  It  beat — the 
heart— it  beat : 

Faint — but  it  beat :  at  which  his  own 
began 

To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that  it 
drowned 

The  feebler  motion  underneath  his 
hand. 

But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  satis- 
tied, 

He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepulchre. 
And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the 
cloak 

He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and 
now 

Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 
Holding  his  golden  burden  in  his  arms, 
So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother's  house  where  she 
was  born. 

There  the  good  mother's  kindly  min- 
istering, 

With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 
Her  fluttering  life  :  she  raised  au  eye 

that  ask'd 
**  Where  ?  "  till  the  things  familiar 

to  her  youth 
Had  made  a  silent  answer :  then  she 

spoke  : 

**Here!  and  how  came  I  here?"  and 

learning  it 
(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I 

think) 

At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
"  Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give 

me  back :  [away— 
Sei)d  !  bid  him  come  ;  "  but  Lionel  was 
Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanished ;  none 

knew  where. 
**He  casts  me  out,"  she  wept,  "and 

goes  "—a  wail 
That  seeming  something,  yet  was  iioth* 

ing,  born 


THE  LOVEirs  TALE, 


577 


Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shattered 
nerve, 

Yet  haunting  Julian  as  her  own  re- 
proof 

At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 
Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had 
return'd, 

"Oh  yes,  and  you,"  she  said,  "and 

none  but  you. 
For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love 

again. 

And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell 
him  of  it, 

And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he 
returns." 

*'  Stay  then  a  little,"  answered  Julian, 
here. 

And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to 
yourself  ; 

And  1  will  do  your  will.   I  may  not 
stay, 

Ko,  not  an  hour ;  but  send  me  notice 
of  him 

When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  re- 
turn. 

And  I  will  make  a  solemn  offering  of 

you  / 
To  him  you  love."   And  faintly  she 

replied, 

**  And  I  will  do  your  will,  and  none 
shall  know." 

Not  know  ?  with  such  a  secret  to  be 
known  ! 

But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved 

them  both 
And  all  the  house  had  known  the 

loves  of  both  ; 
Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any 

way ;  [tary  . 

And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  soli- 
Ahd  then  he  rode  away  ;  but  after  this. 
An  hour  or  two,  Camilla's  travail  came 
Upon  her,  and  that  day  a  boy  was 

born. 

Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  marsh. 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  :  myself 
Avas  then 

Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to 

rest  an  hour  ; 
And  sitting  down  to  such  a  base 

past 


It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it, 
I  heard  a    groaning  overhead,  and 
climb'd 

The  moulder'd  stairs  (for  everything 
was  vile), 

And  in  a  loft,  with  none  to  wait  on 
him. 

Found,  as  it  seem'd,  a  skeleton  alone, 
Raving  of  dead  men's  dust  and  beating 
hearts. 

A  dismal  hostel  in  a  dismal  land, 
A  flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush  . 
But  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of 
him 

Sprang  up  a  friendship  that  may  help 
us  yet. 

For  while  we  roam'd  along  the  dreary 
coast. 

And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by 
piece 

I  learnt  the  drearier  story  of  his  life  ; 
And,  tho'  he  loved  and  honor'd  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady 
made 

Dwelt  in  his  fancy :  did  he  know  her 
worth. 

Her  beauty  even?  should  he  not  be 
taught, 

Ev'n  by  the  price  that  others  set  upon 
it. 

The  value  of  that  jewel  he  had  to 
guard  ? 

Suddenly  came  her  notice,  and  we 
past, 

I  with  our  lover,  to  his  native  bay. 

This  lOve  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind, 
the  soul  • 

That  makes  the   sequel   pure ;  tho' 

some  of  us 
Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  I  :  and  yet  I  say,  the  bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however 

sweet, 

But  if  my  neighbor  whistle  answers 
him — 

What  matter  ?  there  are  others  in  the 
wood. 

Yet  when  I  saw  her  (and  I  thought  him 
crazed, 

Tho'  not  with  such  a  craziness  as  needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of 
hers— 

o'i 


578 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE, 


Oil !  such  dark  eyes  !  and  not  her  eyes 
alone, 

But  all  from   these  to   where  she 

touch' d  on  earih — 
For  such  a  craziness  as  Julian's  look'd 
Ko  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 
To  greet  us,  her  young  hero  in  her 
arms  ! 

Kiss  him,"  she  said.      You  gave  me 
life  again. 
He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it 
once. 

His  other  father  you  I  Kiss  him,  and 
then 

Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be  Julian 
too.'' 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart ! 
his  own 

Sent  such  a  flame  into  his  face,  I  knew 
Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him 
there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to 
go, 

And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying 
him. 

By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne 
the  dead, 

To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with 
him 

Before  he  left  the  land  for  evermore  ; 
And  then  to  friends— they  were  not 

many — who  lived 
Scatteriiigly  about  that  lonely  land  of 

his. 

And  bade  them  to  a  banquet  of  fare- 
wells. 

And  Julian  made  a  solemn  feast :  I 
never 

Sat  at  a  costlier  ;  for  all  around  his 
hall 

Prom  column  on  to  column,  as  in  a 
wood, 

Not  such  as  here— an  eqaiorial  one. 
Great  garlandn  swung  and  blossom'd  ; 

and  beneath. 
Heirloom.^,  and  ancient  miracles  of 

Art, 

Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that,  Hea- 
ven knows  when, 

Had  suck'd  the  tire  of  some  forgotten 
8un, 


And  kept  it  through  a  hundred  years 
•    of  gloom, 

Y*t  glowing  in  a  heart  of  ruby — cups 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round 
in  gold — 

Others  of  glass  as  costly— some  with 
gems 

Movable  and  resettable  at  will, 
And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value— Alj 
heavens ! 

Why  need  I  tell  you  all  ?— suffice  to 
say 

That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his, 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
Was  brought  before  the  guest ;  and 

they,  the  guests, 
Wonder'd  at    ;ome  strange  light  iq 

Julian's  eyes 
(I  told  you  that  he  had  his  golden 

hour). 

And   "uch  a  feast,  ill  suited  as  it 
seem'd 

To  such  a  time,  to  Lionel's  loss  and  his, 
And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a 
land 

He  never  would  revisit,  such  a  feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev'a 

than  rich — 
But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the 
hall 

Two  great  funereal  curtains,  looping 
down. 

Parted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor, 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the 
frame- 

And  just  above  the  parting  was  a 
lamp :  [night 
So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with 
Seem'<l  stepping  out  of  darkness  with 
a  smile. 

Well  then— our  solemn  feast— we  ate 

and  drank. 
And  might— tlie  wines  being  of  such 

nobleness- 
Have  jested  also, but  for  Julian's  eyes. 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about 

it  all  : 

What  was  it  ?  for  our  lover  seldom 
spoke, 

Scarce  touch'd  the  meats ;  but  ever 
and  anon 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


579 


A  priceless  goblet  with  a  priceless  wine 
Arising,  show'd  he  drank  beyond  his 
use  ; 

And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end, 
he  said  : 

"  There  is  a  custom  in  the  Orient, 

triends — 
1  read  of  it  in  Persia— when  a  man 
Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him, 

he  brings 

And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  ac- 
counts 

Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful. 

Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  maybe. 

This  custom  " — 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 

The  guests  broke  in  upon  him  with 
meeting  hands 

And  cries  about  the  banquet — Beau- 
tiful ! 

Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a 
feast?" 

The  lover  answer'd,    There  is  more 
than  one 

Here  sitting  who  desires  it.   Laud  me 
not 

Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the 
close. 

This  custom  steps  yet  further  when  the 
guest 

Is  lov'd  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost. 
For  after  he  hath  shown  him  gems  or 
gold, 

He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rich 
guise 

That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as 
these, 

The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his  heart — 
*  O  my  heart's  lord,  would   I  could 

show  you,'  he  says, 
*Ev'nmy  heart,  too.'   And  I  propose 

to-night 

To  show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my 

heart. 
And  my  heart  too. 

"  But  solve  me  first  a  doubt. 
I  knew  a  man,  nor  many  years  ago ; 
He  had  a  faithful  servant,  one  who 

loved 

His  master  more  than  all  on  earth  be- 
side. 

He  falling  sick,  and  seeming  close  on 
death, 


His  master  would  not  wait  until  he 
died. 

But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from 
the  door, 

And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to 
die. 

I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago, 
Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took 

him  home, 
And  fed,  and^cherish'd  him,  and  saved 

his  life. 

I  ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master 
claim 

His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to  ? 
him 

Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved 
his  life?" 

This  question,  so  flung  down  before 
the  guests. 
And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at 
length 

When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  law 

would  hold. 
Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of 
phrase. 

And  he  beginning  languidly — his  loss 
Weigh' d  on  him  yet — but  warming  as 
he  went, 

Glanced  at  the  point  of  law  to  pass  it 
by, 

Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived, 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  grateful- 
ness. 

The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was 
due 

All  to  the  saver — adding,  with  a  smile, 
The  first  for  many  weeks  —  a  semi- 
smile 

As  at  a  strong  conclusion — body  and 
soul 

And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his 
will." 

Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  to 
me 

To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them 
all. 

And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she 
came, 

And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  her- 
self 


580 


THE  LOVER* S  TALE. 


Is  lovelier  than  all  others — on  her 
head 

A  diamond  circlet,  and  from  under 
this 

A  veil,  that  seemed  no  more  than  gild- 
ed air, 

Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern 
gauze 

"With  seeds  of  gold — so,  with  that  grace 
of  hers, 

Slow-moving  as  a  wave  against  the 
wind, 

That  flings  a  mist  behind  it  in  the 
sun — 

And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty 
babe, 

The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was 
crown'd 

With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself — 
And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the 
jewels 

Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flash'd,  for  he  had  decked 

them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love — 
So  she  came  in  : — I  am  long  in  telling 

it, 

I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  strange. 
Sad,  sweet,  and  strange  together  — 

floated  in — 
While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amaze- 
ment rose— 
And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall, 
Before  the  board,  there  paused  and 

stood,  her  breast 
Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her 
feet. 

Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights 
nor  feast 

Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men; 

who  cared 
Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jew- 

el'd  world 
About  him,  look'd,  as  he  is  like  to 

prove,  [saw. 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he 

**  My  guests,"  said  Julian  :  "  you  are 

honor'd  now 
Ev'n  to  the  uttermost :  in  her  behold 
Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to 

me.*' 


Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  our* 
selves, 

Led  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state  . 
And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 
Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice  in  a  second,  felt  him  tremble 
too. 

And  heard  him  muttering,  So  like,  so 
like; 

She  never  had  a  sister.   I  knew  none; 
Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers— O  God, 
so  like  ! " 

And  then  he  suddenly  ask'd  her  if  she 
were. 

She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down, 

and  was  dumb. 
And  then  some  other  question'd  if  she 

came 

From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did 

not  speak. 
Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers  :  but  she 
To  all  their  queries  answer'd  not  a 

word, 

Which  made  the  amazement  more,  till 

one  of  them 
Said,    shuddering,    "Her  spectre!" 

But  his  friend 
Replied,  in  half  a  whisper,  "Not  at 

least 

The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken 
to. 

Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Prove,  as  I  almost  dread  to  find  her, 
dumb ! " 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer'd 
all: 

"She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you 
see 

That  faithful  servant  whom  we  spoke 
about, 

Obedient  to  her  second  master  now  ; 

Which  will  not  last.  I  have  here  to- 
night a  guest 

So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and 
loss— 

What !  shall  I  bind  him  more  ?  in  his 
behalf. 

Shall  1  exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest 
to  me. 

Not  only  showing?  and  he  himselj 

pronounced 
That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  ta 
give* 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


58t 


«*  Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all 
of  you 

Not  to  break  in  on  what  I  say  by  word 
Or  whisper,  while  I  show  you  all  my 
heart." 

And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily — 
The   passionate  moment  would  not 

suffer  that- 
Past  thro'  his  visions  to  the  burial ; 

thence 

Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his 
own  hall ;  [guests 
And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his 
Once  more  as  by  enchantment ;  all 
but  he, 

Lionel,  who  fain  at  risen,  but  fell 
again,  [said : 

And  sat  as  if  in  chains — to  whom  he 

Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for 

your  wife  ; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake, 
And  tho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you 

lost, 

Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring 

her  back  : 
I  leave  this  land  forever."   Here  he 

ceased. 

Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one 
bandy 


And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble 
babe, 

He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 
And  there  the  widower  husband  and 
dead  wife 

Rush'd  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that 

rather  seem'd 
For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life  re- 

new'd  ; 

Whereat  the  very  babe  began  to  wail ; 

At  once  they  turn'd,  and  caught  and 
brought  him  in 

To  their  charm'd  circle,  and,  half  kill- 
ing him 

With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and 
claspt  again. 

But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  him- 
self 

From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a 
face 

All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life, 
And  love,  and  boundless  thanks— the 

sight  of  this 
So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that,  turn- 
ing to  me 
And  saying,    It  is  over :  let  us  go  " — 
There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the 
doors— 

We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mount 
ing  these 

He  past  forever  from  his  native  land  ; 
And  I  with  him,  my  Julian,  back  tc 
mine. 


TO 


ALFRED  TENNYSON, 

MY  GRANDSON. 

Goiaen-hairM  Ally  whose  name  is  one  with  me, 
Crazy  with  laughter  and  babble  and  earth's  new  vrine, 
Now  that  the  flower  of  a  year  and  a  half  is  thine, 
O  little  blossom,  O  mine,  and  mine  of  mine, 
Glorious  poet  who  never  hast  written  a  line, 
Laugh,  for  the  name  at  the  head  of  my  verse  is  thina. 
May'st  thou  never  be  wrong'd  by  the  name  that  is  mine  t 


(582) 


THE  FJliJST  QUAHREL.  m 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 

(IN  THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT.) 


I. 

'"Wait  a  little,'  you  say, '  you  are  sure 

it'll  all  come  right,' 
But  the  boy  was  born  i'  trouble,  an' 

looks  so  wan  an'  so  white  : 
Wait !  an'  once  I  ha'  waited — I  hadn't 

to  wait  for  long. 
Now  1  wait,  wait,  wait  for  Harry — No, 

no,  you  are  doing  me  wrong  ! 
Harry  and  I  were  married :  the  boy 

can  hold  up  his  head, 
The  boy  was  born  in  wedlock,  but  after 

my  man  was  dead ; 
I  hii'  work'd  for  him  fifteen  years,  an' 

I  work  an'  I  wait  to  the  end. 
I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  an'  you 

are  my  only  friend. 

II. 

Doctor,  if  you  can  wait,  I'll  tell  you 

the  tale  o'  my  life. 
When  Harry  an'  I  were  children,  he 

call'd  me  his  own  little  wife  ; 
I  was  happy  when  I  was  with  him,  an' 

sorry  when  he  was  away^ 
An'  when  we  play'd  together,  I  loved 

him  better  than  play  ; 
He  workt  me  the  daisy  chain— he  made 

me  the  cowslip  ball, 
He  fought  the  boys  that  were  rude  an' 

I  loved  him  better  than  all. 
Passionate  §irl  tho'  1  was,  an'  often  at 

home  in  disgrace, 
I  never  could  quarrel  with  Harry— I 

had  but  to  look  in  his  face. 
III. 

There  was  a  farmer  in  Dorset  of  Har- 
ry's kin,  that  had  need 

Of  a  good  stout  lad  at  his  farm ;  he 
sent,  an'  the  father  agreed  ; 

So  Harry  was  bound  to  the  Dorsetshire 
farm  for  years  an'  for  years ; 

I  walked  with  him  down  to  the  quay, 
poor  lad,  an'  we  parted  in  tears. 


The  boat  was  beginning  to  move,  we 
heard  them  a-ringing  the  bell, 

'  I'll  never  love  any  but  you,  God  bless 
you,  my  own  little  Nell.' 

IV. 

I  was  a  child,  an'  he  was  a  child,  an* 

he  came  to  harm  ; 
There  was  a  girl,  a  hussy,  that  workt 

with  him  up  at  the  farm, 
One  had  deceived  her  an'  left  her  alone 

with  her  sin  an'  her  shame, 
And  so  she  was  wicked  with  Harry ; 

the  girl  was  the  most  to  blame. 

V. 

And  years  went  over  till  I  that  was 

little  had  grown  so  tall, 
The  men  would  say  of  the  maids  '  Our 

Nelly's  the  flower  of  'em  all.' 
I  didn't  take  heed  o'  thevrif  but  I  taught 

myself  all  I  could 
To  make  a  good  wife  for  Harry,  when 

Harry  came  home  for  good. 

VI. 

Often  I  seem'd  unhappy,  and  often  as 

happy  too, 
For  I  heard  it  abroad  in  the  fields  *  I'll 

never  love  any  but  you  ; ' 
*  I'll  never  love  any  but  you '  the 

morning  song  of  the  lark, 
'  I'll  never  love  any  but  you '  the 

nightingale's  hymn  in  the  dark. 

VII. 

And  Harry  came  home  at  last,  but  he 
look'd  at  me  sidelong  and  shy, 

Vext  me  a  bit,  till  he  told  me  that  so 
many  years  had  gone  by, 

I  had  grown  so  handsome  and  tall — 
that  I  might  ha'  forgot  him  some- 
how— 

For  he  thought— there  were  other  ladfc 
— he  was  fear'd  to  look  at  me  now. 


584 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 


VIII. 

Hard  was  the  frost  in  the  field,  we  were 

married  o'  Christmas  day, 
Married  among  the  red  berries,  an'  all 

as  merry  as  May — 
Those  were  the  pleasant  times,  my 

house  an'  my  man  were  my  pride, 
We  seem'd  like  ships  i'  the  Channel 

a-sailing  with  wind  an'  tide. 

IX. 

But  work  was  scant  in  the  Isle,  tho'  he 

tried  the  villages  round, 
So  Harry  went  over  the  Solent  to  see 

if  work  could  be  found  ; 
An'  he  wrote  '  I  ha'  six  weeks'  work, 

little  wife,  so  far  as  I  know  ; 
I'll  come  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  an' 

kiss  you  before  1  go.' 

X. 

So  I  set  to  righting  the  house,  for 

wasn't  he  coming  that  day  V 
An'  1  hit  on  an  old  deal-box  that  was 

push'd  in  a  corner  away. 
It  was  full  of  old  odds  an'  ends,  an'  a 

letter  along  wi'  the  rest, 
I  had  better  ha'  put  my  naked  hand  in 

a  hornets'  nest. 

XI. 

*  Sweetheart '—this  was  the  letter — 

this  was  the  letter  I  read— 
*You  promised  to  tind  me  work  near 

jyou,  an'  I  wish  1  was  dead— 
Didn't  you  kiss  me  an'  promise  ?  you 

haven't  done  it,  my  lad. 
An'  I  almost  died  o'  your  going  away, 

an'  1  wish  that  1  had.' 

XII. 

1  too  wish  that  I  had— in  the  pleasant 

times  that  ha<l  past. 
Before  1  quarrell'd  with  Harry— m?/ 

quarrel— the  first  an'  the  last. 

XIII. 

For  Harry  came  in,  an'  1  flung  him  the 

letter  that  drove  me  wild, 
An'  he  told  it  me  all  at  once,  as  simple 

as  any  child, 

*  What  can  it  matter,  my  lass,  what  I 
did  wi'  my  single  life  ? 

I  ha'  been  as  true  to  you  as  ever  a  man 
to  his  wif  ^  i 


An'  she  wasn't  one  o'  the  worst.* 
'  Then,'  I  said,  *  I'm  none  o'  the  best.* 

An'  he  smiled  at  me,  *  Ain't  you"  my 
love  ?  Come,  come,  little  wife,  let  it 
rest ! 

The  man  isn't  like  the  woman,  no  need 

to  make  such  a  stir.' 
But  he  anger'd  me  all  the  more,  an'  I 

said  '  You  were  keeping  with  her, 
When  I  was  a-loving  you  all  along  an' 

the  same  as  before.' 
An'  he  didn't  speak  for  awhile,  an'  he 

anger'd  me  more  and  more.' 
Then  he  patted  my  hand  in  his  gentle 

way,  •  Let  bygones  be  ! ' 
'Bygones!  you  kept  yours  hush'd,'  I 

said,  '  when  you  married  me  ! 
By-^ones  ma'  be  come-agains  ;  an'  sh9 

— in  her  shame  an'  her  sin — 
You'll  have  her  to  nurse  my  child,  if  I 

die  o'  my  lying  in  ! 
You'll  make  her  its  second  mother — J 

hate  her —an'  1  hate  you  ! ' 
Ah,  Harry,  my  man,  you  had  better  ha* 

beaten  me  black  and  blue 
Than  ha'  spoken  so  kind  as  you  did, 

when  1  were  so  crazy  wi'  spite, 
*  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it'll 

all  come  right.' 

XIV. 

An'  he  took  three  turns  in  the  rain, 
an'  I  watch'd  him,  an'  when  he  came 
in 

I  felt  that  my  heart  was  liard,  he  was 

all  wet  thro'  to  the  skin. 
An'  I  never  said  '  off  wi'  the  wet,'  I 

never  said  '  on  wi'  the  dry,' 
So  I  knew  my  heart  was  hard,  when  he 

came  to  bid  me  good-by. 
'  You  said  that  you  hated  me,  Ellen, 

but  that  isn't  true,  you  know  ; 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  a  bit— you'U 

kiss  me  before  1  go  ? ' 

XV. 

<  Going  I  you're  going  to  her— kiss  her 

—if  you  will,'  I  said, — 
I  was  near  my  time  wi'  the  boy— I  must 

ha'  been  light  i'  my  head — 
'  1  had  sooner  be  cursed  than  kiss'd'  — 

1  didn't  know  well  what  I  meant. 
But  1  turn'd  my  face  from        an'  htt 

turu'd  his  face  an'  he  went. 


EIZPAIT. 


585 


XVI. 

And  then  he  sent  me  a  letter,  *  Ive 

gotten  my  work  to  do  ; 
You  wouldn't  kiss  me,  my  lass,  an'  I 

never  loved  any  but  you  ; 
I  am  sorry  for  all  the  quarrel  an'  sorry 

for  what  she  wrote, 
I  ha'  six  weeks'  work  in  Jersey  an'  go 

to-night  by  the  boat.' 

XVII. 

An'  the  wind  began  to  rise,  an'  1 

thought  of  him  out  at  sea, 
An'  I  felt  I  had  been  to  blame  ;  he  was 

always  kind  to  me. 
*  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it'll 

all  come  right ' — 
An'  the  boat  went  down  that  night— 

the  boat  went  down  that  night. 


RIZPAH. 
17—. 
I. 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind 

over  land  and  sea — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  'O 

mother  come  out  to  me.' 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when 

he  knows  that  I  cannot  go  ? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day, 

and  the  full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 

II. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear ;  they 

would  spy  us  out  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the 

storm  rushing  over  the  down, 
When  1  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but 

am  led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till 

I  find  myself  drenched  with  the  rain. 

III. 

Any  thing  fallen  again?  nay — what 

was  there  left  to  fall  ? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  num- 

ber'd  the  bones,  I  have  hidden  them 

all. 

What  am  I  saying  ?  and  what  are  you  ? 

do  you  come  as  a  spy  ? 
Falls?  what  falls?  who  knows?  As 

the  tree  falls  so  it  must  lie. 


IV. 

Who  let  her  in?  how  long  has  she 

been  ?  you — what  have  you  heard  ? 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  ?  you  never 

have  spoken  a  word. 
O — to  pray  with  me — ^yes— a  lady — ^non^ 

of  their  spies — 
But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart, 

and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 

V. 

Ah — you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what 

should  you  know  of  the  night, 
The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and 

the  bitter  frost  and  the  fright  ? 
1  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep 

— you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gathered  my  baby  together— 

and  now  you  may  go  your  way. 

VI. 

Nay— for  it's  kind  of  you.  Madam,  to 

sit  by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have 

only  an  hour  of  life. 
I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he 

went  out  to  die. 
<  They  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said,  and 

he  never  has  told  me  a  lie. 
I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard 

once  when  he  was  but  a  child — 
•The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he 

said  ;  he  was  always  so  wild — 
And  idle— and  couldn't  be  idle— my 

Willy— he  never  could  rest. 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a 

soldier,  he  would  have  been  one  of 

his  best. 

VII. 

But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates, 
and  they  never  would  let  him  be 
good ; 

They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the 
mail,  and  he  swore  that  he  would  ; 

And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one 
purse,  and  when  all  was  done 

He  flung  it  among  his  fellows— I'll 
none  of  it,  said  my  son. 

VIII. 

I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the 
lawyers.   I  told  them  my  tale, 

God's  own  truth— but  they  kill'd  him, 
they  kill'd  him  for  robbing  the  mail. 


JilZPAH, 


They  hang'd  liim  in  chains  for  a  show 

— we  had  always  borne  a  good  name — 
To  he  hang'd  for  a  thief — and  then  put 

away — isn't  that  enough  shame  ? 
Pust  to  dust— low  down— let  us  hide  ! 

but  they  set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could 

stare  at  him,  passing  by. 
God'U  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and 

the  horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer 

who  kill'd  him  and  hang*d  him  there. 


And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.   I  had 

bid  him  my  last  good-by  ; 
They  had  fasten' d  the  door  of  his  cell. 

'  O  mother  ! '  I  heard  him  cry. 
I  couldn't  get  back  tho'  1  tried,  he  had 

something  further  to  say, 
And  now  1  shall  never  know  it.  The 

jailer  forced  me  away. 


Then  since  1  couldn't  but  hear  that  cry 

of  my  boy  that  was  dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up  :  they 

fasten'd  me  down  on  my  bed. 
'  Mother,  O  mother  !  '—he  call'd  in  the 

dark  to  me  year  after  year— 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me— 

you  know  that  I  couldn't  but  hear; 
And  then  at  the  last  they  found  1  had 

grown  so  stupid  and  still 
They  let  me  abroad  again— but  the 

creatures  had  worked  their  will. 

XI. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone 

of  my  bone  was  left — 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers— and 

you,  will  you  call  it  a  theft  ? 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd 

me,  the  bones  that  had  laughed  and 

had  cried— 
Theirs  ?    O  no  !  they  are  mine — not 

theirs— they  had  moved  in  my  side. 

XII. 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the 
bones?  I  kiss'd  'em,  1  buried  'em 
all— 

I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old— in  the  night 

by  the  churchyard  wall. 
My  Willy'U  rise  up  whole  when  the 

trumpet  of  judgment  'ill  sound, 


But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I 
laid  him  in  holy  ground. 

XIII. 

They  would  scratch  him  up— they 
would  hang  him  again  on  the  cursed 
tree. 

Sin  ?  O  yes — we  are  sinners,  I  know — 

let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the 

Lord's  good  will  toward  men — 
*Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the 

Lord'— let  me  hear  it  again  ; 
*  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy— long- 

sulfering.'   Yes,  O  yes  ! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder 

— the  Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He* II  never  put  on  the  black  cap  ex. 

cept  for  the  worst  of  the  worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last— I  have  heard 

it  in  church— and  the  last  may  be 

first. 

Sulfering — O  long-suffering — yes,  ae 

the  Lord  must  know. 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the 

wind  and  the  shower  and  the  snow. 


Heard,  have  you?  what?  they  have 

told  you  he  never  repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it  !  are  they  his 

mother  ?  are  you  of  his  kin  ? 
Heard  !  have  you  ever  heard,  when  the 

storm  on  the  downs  began. 
The  wind  that'll  wail  like  a  child,  and 

the  sea  that'll  moan  like  a  man  ? 

XV. 

Election,  Election  and  Reprobation- 
it's  all  very  well. 

But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I 
shall  not  find  him  in  Hell. 

For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that 
the  Lord  has  look'd  into  my  care, 

And  He  means  me  I*m  sure  to  be  happy 
with  Willy,  I  know  not  where. 

XVI. 

And  if  he  be  lost— but  to  save  my  soul, 

that  is  all  your  desire  : 
Do  you  think  that  1  care  for  my  soul  if 

my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark— go, 

go,  you  may  leave  me  alone — 
You  never  have  borne  a  child— you  91% 

just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 


THE  NORTHEim  COBBLER. 


58T 


XVII. 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  !   I  think 

that  you  mean  to  be  kind, 
But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 

Willy's  voice  in  the  wind — 
The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright— he 

used  but  to  call  in  the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the 

church  and  not  from  the  gibbet— for 

hark  ! 

Nay— you  can  hear  it  yourself— it  is 
coming— shaking  the  walls — 

Willy— the  moon's  in  a  cloud  Good 

night.  I  am  going.   He  calls. 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 
I. 

WaAit  till  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur  thou 

mun  a'  sights  *  to  tell. 
Eh,  but  I  be  maain  glad  to  seaa  tha  sa 

'arty  an'  well. 
*Ca«t  awaay  on  a  disolut  land  wi'  a 

vartical  soon  ! '  * 
Strange  fur  to  goa  fur  to  think  what 

saailors  a'  seean  an'  a'  doon  ; 
*Summat  to  drink— sa'    'ot?'    I  'a 

nowt  but  Adam's  wine  : 
What's  the  'eat  o'  this  little  'ill-side  to 

the  'eat  o'  the  line  ? 

II. 

*  What's  i'  tha  bottle  a-stanning  theer  ? ' 

I'll  tell  tha.  Gin. 
But  if  thou  wants  thy  grog,  tha  mun 

goa  fur  it  down  to  the  inn. 
Naay — fur  I  be  maain-glad,  but  thaw 

tha  was  iver  sa  dry. 
Thou  gits  naw  gin  fro'  the  bottle  theer, 

an'  I'll  tell  tha  why. 

III. 

Mea  an'  thy  sister  was  married,  wjien 
wur  it  ?  back-end  o'  June, 

•  The  vowels  ai,  pronounced  separately 
though  in  the  closest  conjunction,  best  render 
the  sound  of  the  long  i  and  y  in  this  dialect. 
But  since  such  words  as  craiin',  daiin\  what,  at, 
(I)  &c.,  look  awkward  except  in  a  page  of  ex- 
press phonetics,  I  have  thought  it  better  to 
leave  the  simple  i  and  y,  and  to  trust  that  my 
readers  will  give  them  the  broader  pronuncia- 
tion. 

•  The  oo  short,  as  in  wood.' 


Ten  year  sin',  and  wa  'greed  as  well  as 

a  fiddle  i'  tune  : 
I  could  fettle  and  clump  owd  booots 

and  shoes  wi'  the  best  on  'em  all, 
As  fer  as  fro'  Thursby  thurn  hup  t« 

Harmsby  and  Hutterby  Hall. 
We  was  busy  as  beeas  i'  the  bloom  an* 

as  'appy  as  'art  could  think, 
An'  then  the  babby  wur  burn,  and  then 

I  taakes  to  the  drink. 

IV. 

An'  I  weant  gaainsay  it,  my  lad,  thaw 
I  be  haf e  shaamed  on  it  now, 

We  could  sing  a  good  song  at  the  Plow, 
we  could  sing  a  good  song  at  the 
Plow ; 

Thaw  once  of  a  frosty  night  I  slither'd 

an'  hurted  my  huck,* 
An'  I  coom'd  neck-an-crop  soometimes 

slaape  down  i'  the  squad  an'  the 

muck : 

An'  once  I  fowt  wi'  the  Taailor — not 

hafe  ov  a  man,  my  lad — 
Fur  he  scrawm'd  an'  scratted  my  faace 

like  a  cat,  an'  it  maade  'er  sa  mad 
That  Sally  she  turn'd  a  tongue-banger,t 

an'  raated  ma,  *  Sottin  '  thy  braains 
Guzzlin'  an'  soakin'  an'  smoakin'  an' 

hawmin'  $  about  i'  the  laanes, 
Soa  sow-droonk  that  tha  doesn  not 

touch  thy  'at  to  the  Squire  ; ' 
An'  I  loook'd  cock-eyed  at  my  noase 

an'  I  sfeead  'im  a-gittin'  o'  fire  ; 
But  sin'  I  wur  hallus  i'  liquor  an'  hal- 

lus  as  droonk  as  a  king, 
Foalks  coostom  fiitted  awaay  like  a 

kite  wi'  a  brokken  string. 

V. 

An'  Sally  she  wesh'd  foalks'  cloaths 

to  keep  the  wolf  fro'  the  door, 
Eh  but  the  moor  she  riled  me,  she  druv 

me  to  drink  the  moor. 
Fur  I  fun',  when  'er  back  wur  turn'd, 

wheer  Sally's  owd  stockin'  wur  'id. 
An'  I  grabb'd  the  munny  she  maade, 

and  1  wear'd  it  o'  liquor,  I  did. 

VI. 

An'  one  night  I  cooms  'oam  like  a  bull 

gotten  loose  at  a  faair. 
An'  she  wur  a-waaitin'  fo'mma,  an* 

cryin'  an'  tearin'  'er  'aair, 

•  H't)  t  Scold.        t  lounging. 


588 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER, 


An'  I  tumraled  athurt  the  craadle  an* 

swear'd  as  I'd  break  ivry  stick 
O'  f  lunitar  'ere  i'  the  'ouse,  an'  I  gied 

our  Sally  a  kick, 
An'  1  mash'd  the  taables  an'  chairs, 

an'  she  an'  the  babby  beal'd,* 
For  I  knaw'd  naw  moor  what  I  did  nor 

a  mortal  beast  o'  the  f  eald. 

VII. 

An'  when  I  waaked  i'  the  murnin'  I 

seead  that  our  Sally  went  laamed 
Cos'  o'  the  kick  as  I  gied  'er,  an'  I  wur 

dreadful  ashaamed  ; 
An'  Sally  wur  sloomy  t  an'  draggle- 

taail'd  in  an  owd  turn  gown, 
An'  the  babby 's  faace  wurn't  wesh'd 

an*  the  'ole  'ouse  h upside  down. 

VIII. 

An'  then  I  minded  our  Sally  sa  pratty 

an'  neat  an'  sweeat, 
Straat  as  a  pole  an'  clean  as  a  flower 

fro'  'ead  to  feeat : 
An'  then  I  minded  the  fust  kiss  I  gied 

'er  by  Thursby  thurn  ; 
Theer  wur  a  lark  a-singin'  'is  best  of  a 

Sunday  at  mum, 
Couldn't   see  'im,  we  'card   'im  a- 

mountin'  oop  'iglier  an'  'igher, 
An'  then  'e  turn'd  to  the  sun,  an'  'e 

shined  like  a  sparkle  o'  fire. 
•Doesn't  tha  see  'im,'  she  axes,  *  fur  I 

can  see  'im  ? '  an'  1 
Seead  nobbut  the  smile  o'  the  sun  as 

danced  in  'er  pratty  blue  eye  ; 
An'  I  says  '  I  mun  gie  tha  a  kiss,'  an' 

Sally  says  *  Noa,  thou  moant,' 
But  I  gied  'er  a  kiss,  an'  then  aiiootlier, 

an'  Sally  says  '  doant !  * 

IX. 

4n'  when  we  coom'd  into  Meeatin',  at 

fust  she  wur  all  in  a  tew, 
But,  arter,  we  sing'dthe  'ymn  togither 

like  birds  on  a  beugh  ; 
An'  Muggins  'e  preach'd  o'  Hell-fire 

an'  the  loov  o'  God  fur  men. 
An'  then  upo'  coomin'  awaay  Sally 

gied  me  a  kiss  ov  'ersen. 

X. 

Heer  wur  a  fall  fro'  a  kiss  to  a  kick 
like  Saatan  as  fell 

•  Bellowed,  cried  out. 
t  Sluggish,  out  of  Bpirits. 


Down  out  o'  heaven  i'  Hell-fire— thaw 
theer's  naw  drinkin'  i'  Hell ; 

Mea  fur  to  kick  our  Sally  as  kep'  the 
wolf  fro'  the  door, 

All  along  o'  the  drink,  fur  I  loov'd  'er 
as  well  as  af  oor. 

XI. 

Sa  like  a  graat  num-cumpus  I  blubber'd 
awaay  o'  the  bed— 

*  Weant  niver  do  it  naw  moor  ;  *  an* 

Sally  loookt  up  an'  she  said, 
'  I'll  upowd  it  *  tha  weant ;  thou'rt  laike 

the  rest  o'  the  men, 
Thou'll  goa  snittin'  about  the  tap  till 

tha  does  it  agean. 
Theer's  thy  hennemy,  man,  an'I  knaws, 

as  knaws  tha  sa  well, 
That,  if  tha  seeas  'im  an'  smells  *im 

tha'll  foller  'im  slick  into  Hell.' 

XII. 

*  Naay,'  says  I,  *  fur  I  weant  goa  sniffin 

about  the  tap.' 
<  Weant  tha  ? '  she  says,  an'  mysen  I 
thowt  i'  mysen  *  mayhap.' 

*  Noa  : '  an'  I  started  away  like  a  shot, 

an'  down  to  the  Hinn, 
An'  I  browt  what  tha  seeas  stannin* 
theer,  yon  big  black  bottle  o'  gin. 

XIII. 

*  That  caps  owt,'  t  says  Sally,  an'  saw 

she  begins  to  cry. 
But  I  puts  it  inter  'er  'ands  an'  I  says 
to  'er,  «  Sally,'  says  I, 

*  Stan'  im  theer  i'  the  naame  o'  the  Lord 

an'  the  power  ov  'is  Graace, 
Stan'  'im  theer,  fur  I'll  look  my  hen- 
nemy strait  i'  the  faace, 
Stan'  'im  theer  i'  the  winder,  an'  let 

ma  loook  at  'im  then, 
'E  seeains  naw  moor  nor  watter,  an' 
'e's  the  Divil's  oan  sen.* 

XIV. 

An'  I  wur  down  i'  tha  mouth,  couldn't 

do  naw  work  an'  all. 
Nasty  an'  snaggy  and  shaaky,  an' 

poonch'd  my  'and  wi'  the  hawl. 
But  she  wur  a  power  o'  coomfut,  art' 

sattled  'ersen  o'my  knee. 
And  coaxd  an'  coodled  me  oop  til; 

agean  I  f eel'd  mysen  free. 

•  rn  uphold  it. 

i  That's  beyond  everythingt 


THE  SISTERS. 


589 


XV. 

An'  Sally  she  tell'd  it  about,  an*  foalk 

stood  a-gawmiii'  *  in, 
Ab  thaw  it  wur  summat  bewitch'd  in- 
stead of  a  quart  o'  gin  ; 
An'  some  on  'em  said  itwurwatter—an* 

1  wur  chousin'  the  wife, 
Fur  I  couldn't  'owd  'ands  off  gin,  wur 

it  nobbut  to  saave  ray  life  ; 
An'  blacksmith  'e  strips  me  the  thick 

ov  'is  airm,  an'  'e  shaws  it  to  me, 
*  Feeal  thou  this  I  thou  can't  graw  this 

upo'  watter  ! '  says  he. 
An'  Doctor  'e  calls  o'  Sunday  an'  just 

as  candles  was  lit, 
« Thou  moant  do  it,'  he  says,  '  tha  mun 

break  'iiii  off  bit  by  bit.' 
•Thou'rt  but  a  Methody-man,'  says 

Parson,  and  laays  down  'is  'at. 
An'  'e  points  to  the  bottle  o'  gin,  *  but 

I  respecks  tha  for  that : ' 
An'  Squire,  his  oan  very  sen,  walks 

down  fro'  the  'All  to  see. 
An'  'e  spanks  'is  'and  intomine» '  furl 

respecks  tha,'  says  'e ; 
An'  coostom  agean  draw'd  in  like  a 

wind  fro'  far  an'  wide. 
An'  browt  me  the  booots  to  be  cobbled 

fro'  haf e  the  coontryside. 

XVI. 

An'  theer'e  stans  an'  theer'e  shall  Stan 

to  my  dying  daay  ; 
I  'a  gotten  to  loov  'im  agean  in  anoo- 

ther  kind  of  a  waay. 
Proud  on  'im,  like,  my  lad,  an'  I 

keeaps  'im  clean  an'  bright. 
Loots  'im,  an'  roobs  'im,  an'  doosts 

'im,  an'  puts  'im  back  i'  the  light. 

XVII. 

Wouldn't  a  pint  a'  sarved  as  well  as  a 

quart  ?  Naw  doubt : 
But  I  liked  a  bigger  feller  to  fight  wi' 

an'  fowt  it  out. 
Fine  an'  meller  'e  mun  be  by  this,  if  I 

cared  to  taaste, 
But  I  moant,  my  lad,  and  I  weant,  fur 

I'd  feal  mysen  clean  disgraaced. 

XVIII. 

An'  once  I  said  to  the  Missis,  *  My  lacs, 
when  I  cooms  to  die, 

*  Staring  vacantly. 


Smash  the  bottle  to  smithers,  the 

Divil's  in  'im,'  said  I. 
But  arter  I  chaanged  my  mind,  an'  if 

Sally  be  left  aloan, 
1*11  hev  'im  a-buried  wi'mma  an'  taake 

'im  afoor  the  Throan. 

XIX. 

Coom  thou  'eer— yon  laady  a-steppin' 

along  the  streeat. 
Doesn't  tha  knaw  *er— sa  pratty,  an* 

feat,  an'  neat,  an'  sweeat  ? 
Look  at  the  cloaths  on  'er  back,  thebbe 

ammost  spick-span-new, 
An'  Tommy's  faace  is  as  fresh  as  a 

codlin  'at's  wesh'd  'i  the  dew. 

XX. 

'Ere's  our  Sally  an'  Tommy,  an'  we  be 

a-goin'  to  dine, 
Baacon  an'  taates,  an'  a  beslings- 

puddin'  *  an'  Adam's  wine  ; 
But  if  tha  wants  ony  grog  tha  mun  goa 

fur  it  down  to  the  Hinn, 
Fur  I  weant  shed  a  drop  on  'is  blood, 
•  noa,  not  fur  Sally's  oan  kin. 


THE  SISTERS. 
They  have  left  the  doors  ajar  ;  and  by 

their  clash. 
And  prelude  on  the  keys,  I  know  the 

song. 

Their  favorite — which  I   call  *The 

Tables  Turned.' 
Evelyn  begins  it '  O  diviner  Air.' 

EVELYN. 

O  diviner  Air, 

Thro'  the  heat,  the  drowth,  the  dust, 

the  glare. 
Far  from  out  the  west  in  shadowing 

showers, 

Over  all  the  meadow  baked  and  bare, 
Making  fresh  and  fair 
All  the  bowers  and  the  flowers. 
Fainting  flowers,  faded  bowers, 
Over  all  this  weary  world  of  ours. 
Breathe,  diviner  Air ! 

A  sweet  voice  that— you  scarce  could 

better  that. 
Now  follows  Edith  echoing  Evelyn. 

*  A  pudding  made  with  the  first  milk  of  tb0 
cow  after  calving 


THE  SISTFBS. 


O  diviner  Light, 

Thro*  the  cloud  that  roofs  our  noon 
with  night, 

Thro'  the  blotting  mist,  the  blinding 
showers, 

Far  from  out  a  sky  forever  bright, 

Over  all  the  woodland's  flooded  bow- 
ers, 

Over  all  the  meadow's  drowning 
ftowers, 

Over  all  this  ruin'd  world  of  ours, 
Break,  diviner  Light ! 

Marvellously  like,  their  voices— and 

themselves  ! 
Tho'  one  is  somewhat  deeper  than  the 

other. 

As  one  is  somewhat  graver  than  the 
other — 

Edith  than  Evelyn.  Your  good  Uncle, 
whom 

You  count  the  father  of  your  fortune, 
longs 

For  this  alliance  :  let  me  ask  you  then, 
Which  voice  most  takes  you  ?  for  I  do 
not  doubt 

Being  a  watchful  parent,  you  are  taken 
With  one  or  other:  tho'  sometimes  I 
fear 

You  may  be  flickering,  fluttering  in  a 
doubt 

Between  the  two— which  must  not  be — 
which  might 

Be  death  to  one  :  they  both  are  beauti- 
ful : 

Evelyn  is  gayer,  wittier,  prettier,  says 
The  common  voice,  if  one  may  trust  it : 
she? 

No !  but  the  paler  and  the  graver, 
Edith. 

Woo  her  and  gain  her  then  :  no  waver- 
ing, boy  ! 

The  graver  is  perhaps  the  one  for  you 
Who  jest  and  laugh  so  easily  and  so 
well. 

For  love  will  go  by  contrast,  as  by 
likes. 

No  sisters  ever  prized  each  other 
more. 

Not  so  :  their  mother  and  her  sister 
loved 

More  pasuiouately  stilL 


But  that  my  best 
And  oldest  friend,  your  Uncle,  wishes 
it. 

And  that  I  know  you  worthy  every 
way 

To  be  my  son,  I  might,  perchance,  be 
loath 

To  part  them,  or  part  from  them  :  and 
yet  one 

Should  marry,  or  all  the  broad  lands  in 

your  view 
From  this  bay  window— which  our 

house  has  held 
Three  hundred  years — will  pass  collat* 

erally. 

My  father  with  a  child  on  eithei 
knee, 

A  hand  upon  the  head  of  either  child. 
Smoothing  their  locks,  as  golden  as 
his  own 

Were  silver,  *get  them  wedded*  he 

would  say. 
And  once  my  prattling  Edith  ask'd 

him  *  whjr  ? ' 
Ay,  why  ?  said  he,  *  for  why  should  I 

go  lame  ? ' 
Then  told  them  of  his  wars,  and  of  his 

wound. 

For  see— this  wine — the  grape  from 
whence  it  flow'd 

Was  blackening  on  the  slopes  of  Port- 
ugal, 

When  that  brave  soldier,  down  the 

terrible  ridge 
Plunged  in  the  last  fierce  charge  at 

Waterloo, 
And  caught  the  laming  bullet.  He 

left  me  this, 
Which  yet  retains  a  memory  of  its 

youth, 

As  I  uf  mine,  and  my  first  passion. 
Come  ! 

Here's  to  your  happy  union  with  my 
child  ! 

Yet  must  you  change  your  name  :  nc 
fault  of  mine  ! 
You  say  that  you  can  do  it  as  willingly 
As  birds  make  ready  for  their  bridal* 
time 

By  change  of  feather  :  for  all  that,  ray 
boy. 

Some  birds  are  sick  and  fluUeu  wher 
they  molt. 


THE  SISTERS. 


591 


An  old  and  worthy  name  i  but  mine 

that  stirr'd 
Among  our  civil  wars  and  earlier  too 
Among  the  Roses,  the  more  venerable. 
i  care  not  for  a  name— no  fault  of 

mine. 

Once  more— a  happier  marriage  than 
my  own ! 

You  see  yon  Lombard  poplar  on  the 
plain. 

The  highway  running  by  it  leaves  a 
breadth 

Of  sward  to  right  and  left,  where,  long 
ago, 

One  bright  May  morning  m  a  world  of 
song, 

I  lay  at  leisure,  watching  overhead 
The  aerial  poplar  wave,  an  amber 
spire. 

I  dozed  ;  I  woke.  An  open  landaulet 
Whirl' d  by,  which,  after  it  had  past 

me,  show'd 
Turning  my  way,  the  loveliest  face  on 

earth. 

The  face  of  one  there  sitting  opposite, 
On  whom  I  brought  a  strange  unhap- 

piness, 
That  time  I  did  not  see. 

Love  at  first  sight 
May  seem— with  goodly  rhyme  and 

reason  for  it- 
Possible — at  first  glimpse,  and  for  a 

face 

Gone  in  a  moment— strange.  Yet  once, 

when  first 
I  came  on  lake  Llanberris  in  the  dark, 
A  moonless  night  with  storm— one 

lightning-fork 
Flash'd  out  the  lake ;   and  tho'  I 

loiter'd  there 
The  full  day  after,  yet  in  retrospect 
That  less  than  momentary  thunder- 
sketch 

Of  lake  and  mountain  conquers  all  the 
day. 

The  Sun  himself  has  limn'd  the  face 
for  me. 

Not  quite  so  quickly,  no,  nor  half  as 
well. 

For  look  you  here— the  shadows  are  too 
deep, 


And  like  the  critic's  blurring  comment 
make 

The  veriest  beauties  of  the  work  ap- 
pear 

The  darkest  faults :  the  sweet  eyes 

frown  :  the  lips 
Seem  but  a  gash.   My  sole  memorial 
Of  Edith— no  the  other,— both  indeed. 

So  that  bright  face  was  flash'd  thro* 
sense  and  soul 
And  by  the  poplar  vanish'd— to  be 
found 

Long  after,  as  it  seem'd,  beneath  the 
tall 

Tree-bowers,  and  those  long-sweeping 

beechen  boughs 
Of  our  New  Forest.  I  was  there  alone: 
The  phantom  of  the  whirling  landaulet 
Forever  past  me  by  :  when  one  quick 

peal 

Of  laughter  drew  me  thro'  the  glim- 
mering glades 

Down  to  the  snowlike  sparkle  of  a 
cloth 

On  fern  and  foxglove,  Lo,  the  face 
again. 

My  Rosalind  in  this  Arden— Edith— all 
One  bloom  of  youth,  health,  beauty, 

happiness. 
And  moved  to  merriment  at  a  passing 

jest. 

There  one  of  those  about  her  know- 
ing me 

Call'd  me  to  join  them  ;  so  with  these 
I  spent 

What  seem'd  my  crowning  hour,  my 
day  of  days. 
I  woo'd  her  then,  nor  unsuccessfully, 

The  worse  for  her,  for  me  !  was  I  con- 
tent? 

Ay— no,  not  quite  ;  for  now  and  then  I 
thought 

Laziness,   vague    love-longings,  the 

bright  May, 
Had  made  a  heated  haze  to  magnify 
The  charm  of  Edith — that  a  man's 

ideal 

Is  high  in  Heaven,  and  lodged  with 

Plato's  God, 
Not  findable  here — content,  and  not 

content. 

In  some  such  fashion  as  a  man  may  be 


592 


THE  SISTERS. 


That  having  had  the  portrait  of  his 
friend 

Drawn  by  an  artist,  looks  at  it,  and 
says, 

*  Good  !  very  like  !  not  altogether  he.' 

As  yet  I  had  not  bound  myself  by 
words, 

Only,  believing  1  loved  Edith,  made 
Edith  love  me.   Then  came  the  day 
when  I, 

Flattering  myself  that  all  my  doubts 

were  fools 
Born  of  the  fool  this  Age  that  doubts 

of  ail- 
Not  1  that  day  of  Edith's  love  or 

mine — 

Had  braced  my  purpose  to  declare 
myself  : 

I  stood  upon  the  stairs  of  Paradise. 
The  golden  gates  would  open  at  a 
word. 

I  spoke  it — told  her  of  my  passion, 
seen 

And  lost  and  found  again,  had  got  so 
far, 

Had  caught  her  hand,  her  eyelids  fell 
—I  heard 

Wheels,  and  a  noise  of  welcome  at  the 
doors — 

On  a  sudden  after  two  Italian  years 
Had  set  the  blossom  of  her  health 
again. 

The  younger  sister,  Evelyn,  enter'd — 
there, 

There  was  the  face,  and  altogether  she. 
The  mother  fell  about  the  daughter's 
neck, 

The  sisters  closed  in  one  another's 
arms, 

Their  people  throng'd  about  them  from 
the  hall. 

And  in  the  thick  of  question  and  reply 
I  fled  the  house,  driven  by  one  angel 
face 

And  all  the  Furies. 

I  was  bound  to  her  ; 
I  could  not  free  myself  in  honor- 
bound 

Not  by  the  sounded  letter  of  the  word. 
But  counter-pressures  of  the  yielded 

hand  [mine. 
That  timorously  and  faintly  echoed 
Quick  blushes,  the  sweet  dwelling  of 

her  eyes 


Upon  me  when  she  thought  I  did  nv;t 

see- 
Were  these  not  bonds  ?  nay,  nay,  but 

could  I  wed  her 
Loving  the  other  ?  do  her  that  great 

wrong  ? 

Had  1  not  dream'd  I  lov'd  her  yester- 
morn  ? 

Had  I  not  known  where  Love,  at  first  a 
fear. 

Grew  after  marriage  to  full  height  and 
form? 

Yet  after  marriage,  that  mock-sister 
there — 

Brother-in-law— the  fiery  nearness  of 

it- 
Unlawful  and  disloyal  brotherhood-^ 
What  end  but  darkne^ss  could  ensue 

from  this 

For  all  the  three  ?  So  Love  and  Honor 
jarr'd 

Tho'  Love  and  Honor  join'd  to  raise 
the  full 

High-tide  of  doubt  that  sway'd  me  up 

and  down 
Advancing  nor  retreating. 

Edith  wrote. 
*My  mother  bids  me  ask'  (I  did  not 

tell  you— 
A  widow  with  less  guile  than  many  a 

child. 

God  help  the  wrinkled  children  that 

are  Christ's 
As  well  as   the   plump  cheek— she 

wrought  us  harm. 
Poor  soul,  not  knowing)  *  are  you  ill  ? 

(so  ran 

The  letter)  <  you  have  not  been  here  of 
late. 

You  will  not  find  me  here.   At  last  I 

go 

On  that  long-promised  visit  to  the 
North. 

I  told  your  wayside  story  to  my  mother 
And  Evelyn.    She  remembers  you. 
Farewell. 

Pray  come  and  see  my  mother.  Almost 
blind 

With  ever-growing  cataract.   Yet  she 
thinks 

She  sees  you  when  she  hears.  Again 
farewell.' 

Cold  words  from  on©  I  had  hoped  ta 
warm  so  far 


THE  SISTERS. 


fhat  I  could  stamp  my  image  on  her 
heart ! 

Pray  come  and  see  my  mother,  and 
farewell.' 

Cold,  but  as  welcome  as  free  airs  of 
heaven 

After  a  dungeon's  closeness.  Selfish, 
strange  ! 

What  dwarfs  are  men  !»my  strangled 
vanity 

Utter'd  a  stifled  cry — to  have  vext  my- 
self 

And  all  in  vain  for  her— cold  heart  or 
.   none — 

No  bride  for  me.  Yet  so  my  path  was 

clear 
To  win  the  sister. 

Whom  I  woo'd  and  won. 
For  Evelyn  knew  not  of  my  former 
suit. 

Because  the  simple  mother  work'd 
upon 

By  Edith  pray'd  me  not  to  whisper  of 
it. 

And  Edith  would  be  bridesmaid  on 
the  day. 

But  on  that  day,  not  being  all  at 
ease, 

I  from  the  altar  glancing  back  upon 
her, 

Before  the  first  *  I  will '  was  utter'd, 
saw 

The  bridesmaid  pale,  statuelike,  pas- 
sionless— 

*No  harm,  no  harm'  I  turned  again, 
and  placed 

The  ring  upon  the  finger  of  my  bride. 

So,  when  we  parted,  Edith  spoke  no 
word, 

She  wept  no  tear,  but  round  my  Evelyn 
clung 

In  utter  silence  for  so  long,  I  thought 
*What,  will  she  never  set  her  sister 
free  ? ' 

We  left  her,  happy  each  in  each,  and 
then, 

As  tho'  the  happiness  of  each  in  each 
Were  not  enough,  must  fain  have  tor- 
rents, lakes, 
Hills,  the  great  things  of  Nature  and 
the  fair, 

To  lift  us  as  it  were  from  commonplace, 

;5H 


593 

Better  have 
(The 


And  help  us  to  our  joy 
sent 

Our  Edith  thro'  the  glories  of 
earth. 

To  change  with  her  horizon,  if  true 

Love 

Were  not  his  own  imperial  all-in-all. 
Far  off  we  went.   My  God,  I  would 
not  live 

Save  that  I  think  this  gross  hard- 
seeming  world 
Is  our  misshaping  vision  of  the  Powers 
Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 
our  gains. 

For  on  the  dark  night  of  our  mar- 
riage-day 

The  great  Tragedian,  that  had  quench'd 
herself 

In  that  assumption  of  the  bridesmaid 
—she 

That  loved  me— our  true  Edith— her 

brain  broke 
With  over-acting,  till  she  rose  and  fled 
Beneath  a  pitiless  rush  of  Autumn 

rain 

To  the  deaf  church — to  be  let  in — to 
pray 

Before  that  altar — so  I  think ;  and 
there 

They  found  her  beating  the  hard  Prot- 
estant doors. 

She  died  and  she  was  buried  ere  we 
knew. 

I  learnt  it  first.   I  had  to  speak.  At 
once 

The  bright  quick  smile  of  Evelyn,  that 

had  sunn'd 
The  morning  of  our  marriage,  past 

away  : 

And  on  our  home-return  the  daily 
want 

Of  Edith  in  the  house,  the  garden, 
still 

Haunted  us  like  her  ghost ;  and  by  and 
by, 

Either  from  that  necessity  for  talk 
Which  lives  with  blindness,  or  plain 

innocence 
Of  nature,  or  desire  that  her  lost  child 
Should  earn  from  both  the  praise  of 

heroism. 

The  mother  broke  her  promlsef  t>>  the 
dead. 


594 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE,  OR  THE  ENTAIL. 


And  told  tlie  living  daughter  with 
what  love 

Edith  had  welcomed  my  short  wooing 
of  her, 

And  all  her  sweet  self-sacrifice  and 
death. 

Henceforth  that  mystic  bond  be- 
twixt the  twins — 
Did  I  not  tell  you  they  were  twins  ? — 
prevail 'd 

So  far  that  no  caress  could  win  my 
wife 

Back  to  that  passionate  answer  of  full 
heart 

I  had  from  her  at  first.  Not  that  her 
love, 

Tho'  scarce  as  great  as  Edith's  power 
of  love, 

Had  lessen'd,  but  the  mother's  garru- 
lous wail 

Forever  woke  the  unhappy  Past  again, 
Till  that  dead  bridesmaid,  meant  to  be 
my  bride, 

Put  forth  cold  hands  between  us,  and 
I  fear'd 

The  very  fountains  of  her  life  were 
chill'd  ; 

So  took  her  thence,  and  brought  her 

here,  and  here 
She  bore  a  child,  whom  reverently  we 

call'd  [born 
Editli ;  and  in  the  second  year  was 
A  second — this  I  named  from  her  own 

self, 

Evelyn  ;  then  two  weeks — no  more — 

she  joined, 
In  and  beyond  the  grave,  that  one  she 

loved. 

Now  in  this  quiet  of  declining  life, 
Thro'  dreams  by  night  and  trances  of 
the  day, 

The  sisters  glide  about  me  hand  in 
hand, 

Both  beautiful  alike,  nor  can  I  tell 
j>ne  from  the  other,  nor  care  to  tell 
One  from  the  other,  only  know  they 
come. 

They  smile  upon  me,  till,  remember- 
ing all 

The  love  they  both  have  borne  me,  and 

the  love  • 
I  bore  them  both— divided  as  I  am 
From  either  by  the  stillness  of  the 
grave— 


I  know  not  which  of  these  I  love  th« 
best. 

But  you  love  Edith  ;  and  her  own. 
true  eyes 

Are  traitors  to  her;  our  quick  Eve- 
lyn— 

The  merrier,  prettier,  wittier,  as  they 

talk,  • 
And  not  without  good  reason,  my  good 

son- 
Is  yet  untouch'd  :  and  I  that  hold  them 

both 

Dearest  of  all  things— well,  I  am  not 

sure — 

But  if  there  lie  a  preference  either 
way, 

And  in  the  rich  vocabulary  of  Love 
*  Most  dearest '  be  a  true  superlative— 
I  think  /  likewise  love  your  Edith 
most. 


IHE  VILLAGE  WIFE  :  OR,*  THE 
ENTAIL.* 


'OusE-KEEPER  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur 
new  Squire  cooni'd  last  night. 

Butter  "an'  heggs— yis~yis.  I'll  goa 
wi'  tha  back  :  all  right ; 

Butter  I  warrants  be  prime,  and  I  war- 
rants the  heggs  as  well, 

Hafe  a  pint  o'  milk  runs  out  when  ya 
breaks  the  shell. 


Sit  thysen  down  fur  a  bit :  hev  a  glass 

o'  cowslip  wine  ! 
I  liked  the  owd  Squire  an'  'is  gells  as 

thaw  they  was  gells  o'  mine, 
Fur  then  we  was  all  es  one,  the  Squire 

an'  'is  darters  an'  me. 
Hall  but  Miss  Annie,  the  boldest,  I 

niver  not  took  to  she : 
But  Nelly,  the  last  of  the  cletch,t  I 

liked  'er  the  fust  on  'em  all, 
Fur  li  off  ens  we  talkt  o'  my  darter  es 

died  o'  the  fever  at  fall : 
An'  1  tbowt  'twur  the  will  o'  the  Lord, 

but  Miss  Annie  she  said  it  war 

draains, 

•  See  note  to  '  Northern  Cobbler/ 
t  A  brood  of  chickens. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE,  OR  THE  ENTAIL, 


595 


iTur  she  hedn't  naw  coornf ut  in  'er,  an' 
arn'd  naw  thanks  fur  'er  paains. 

Eh  !  thebbe  all  wi'  the  Lord  my  chil- 
der,  I  han't  gotten  none  ! 

Sa  new  Squire's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in 
'is  'and,  an'  owd  Squire's  gone. 

III. 

Fur  'staate  be  i'  taail,  my  lass  :  tha 

dosn't  knaw  what  that  be  ? 
But  1  knaws  the  law,  I  does,  for  the 

lawyer  towd  it  me. 
*  When  theer's  naw  'ead  to  a  'Ouse  by 

the  fault  o'  that  ere  maale — 
The  gells  they  count  for  nowt.  and  the 

next  un  he  taakes  the  taail. ^ 

IV. 

What  be  the  next  un  like  ?  can  tha  tell 

ony  harm  on  'im  lass  ? — 
Naay  sit  down— naw  'urry— sa  cowd  ! 

— hev  another  glass  ! 
Straange  an'  cowd  fur  the  time  !  we 

may  happen  a  fall  o'  snaw — 
Not  es  I  cares  fur  to  hear  ony  harm, 

but  I  likes  to  knaw. 
An'  I  'oaps  es  'e  beant  booaklam'd:  but 

'e  dosn'  not  coom  fro'  the  shere ; 
We'd  anew  o'  that  wi'  the  Squire,  an' 

we  haates  booaklarnin'  ere. 
V. 

Fur  Squire  wur  a  Varsity  scholard,  an' 

niver  lookt  arter  the  land — 
Whoats  or  turmuts  or  taates — 'e  'ed 

hallus  a  booak  i'  'is  'and, 
Hallus  aloan  wi'  'is  booaks,  thaw  nigh 

upo'  seventy  year. 
An'   booaks,    what's    booaks?  thou 

knaws  thebbe  neyther  'ere  nor  theer. 

VI. 

An'  the  gells,  they  hedn't  naw  taails, 

an'  the  lawyer  he  towd  it  me 
That  'is  taaii  were  soa  tied  up  es  he 

couldn't  cut  down  a  tree  ! 
*  Drat  the  trees,'  says  I,  to  be  sewer  I 

haates  'em,  my  lass, 
Fur  we  puts  the  muck  o'  the  land,  an' 

they  sucks  the  muck  fro'  the  grass. 

VTI. 

An*  Squire  wur  hallus  a-smilin',  an' 
gied  to  the  tramps  goin'  by— 

An'  all  o'  the  wust  i'  the  parish— wi' 
koffens  a  drop  in  'is  eye. 


An'  ivry  darter  o'  Squire's  hed  her 

awn  ridin-erse  to  'ersen. 
An'  they  rampaged  about  wi'  their 

grooms,  an'  was  'untin'  arter  the 

men. 

An'  hallus  a-dallackt*  an'  dizen'dout, 

an'  a-buyin'  new  cloathes, 
While  'e  sit  like  a  great  ^limmer-gowkf 

wi'  'is  glasses  athurt  'is  noase. 
An'  'is  noase  sa  grufted  wi'  snuff  as  it 

couldn't  be  scroob'd  awaay. 
Fur  atween  'is  readin'  an'  writin'  'e 

snifft  up  a  box  in  a  daay, 
An'  'e  niver  runn'd  arter  the  fox,  nor 

arter  the  birds  wi*  'is  gun, 
An'  'e  niver  not  shot  one  'are,  but  'e 

leaved  it  to  Charlie  'is  son. 
An'  'e  niver  not  fish'd  'is  awn  ponds, 

but  Charlie  'e  cotch'd  the  pike. 
Fur  'e  warn't  not  burn  to  the  land,  an* 

'e  didn't  take  kind  to  it  like  ; 
But  I  ears  es  'e'd  gie  fur  a  howry  t  owd 

book  thutty  pound  an'  moor, 
An'  'e'd  wrote  an  owd  book,  his  awn 

sen,  sa  I  knaw'd  es  'e'd  coom  to  be 

poor ; 

An'  'e  gied— I  be  fear'd  fur  to  tell  tha 

'ow  much— fur  an  owd  scratted  stoan, 
An'  'e  digg'd  up  a  loomp  i'  the  land, 

an'  'e  got  a  brown  pot  an'  a  boan. 
An'  'e  bowt  owd  money,  es  wouldn't 

goa,  wi'  good  gowd  o'  the  Queen, 
An'  *e  bowt  little  statutes  all-naakt  an* 

which  was  a  shaame  to  be  seen  ; 
But  'e  niver  looakt  ower  a  bill,  nor  'e 

niver  not  seed  to  owt. 
An'  'e  niver  knawd  nowt  but  booaks, 

an'  booaks,  as  thou  knaws,  beant 

n©wt. 

VIII, 

But  owd  Squire's  laady  es  long  es  ehe 

lived  she  kep'  'em  ail  clear. 
Thaw  es  long  es  she  lived  I  niver  hed 

one  of  'er  dartere  'ere  ; 
But  arter  she  died  we  was  all  es  one, 

the  childer  an'  me. 
An'  sarvints  runn'd  in  an'  out,  an' 

offens  we  hed  'em  to  tea. 
Lawk  !  'ow  I  laugh' d  when  the  lassel 

'ud  talk  o'  their  Missis's  waays, 
An'  the  Missisis  talk'd  o'  the  lasses.-* 

I'll  tell  tha  some  o'  these  da  ays. 

*  Overdreet  in  gay  colors. 
\  Owl.  X  nithy. 


596 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE,  OJR  THE  ENTAIL. 


Hoanly  Miss  Annie  were  saw  stuck 
oop,  like  'er  mother  afoor — 

'Er  an'  'er  blessed  darter — they  uiver 
derken'd  my  door. 

IX. 

An'  Squire  'e  smiled  an'  'e  smiled  till 

'e'd  gotten  a  fright  at  last, 
An'  'e  calls  fur  'is  son,  fur  the  'tur- 

ney's  letters  they  foller'd  sa  fast  ; 
But  Squire  wur  af  ear'd  o'  'is  son,  an' 

'e  says  to  'im,  meek  as  a  mouse, 
*Lad,  thou  mun  cut  olf  thy  taail,  or 

the  gells  'ull  goa  to  the  'Ouse, 
Fur  I  finds  es  I  be  that  i'  debt,  es  I 

'oaps  es  thou'U  'elp  me  a  bit, 
An'  if  thou'U  'gree  to  cut  olf  thy  taail 

I  may  save  mysen  yit.' 

X. 

But  Charlie  'e  sets  back  'is  ears,  an'  'e 

swears,  an'  'e  says  to  'im  •  Noa.' 
*I've  gotten  the  'staate  by  the  taail 

an'  be  dang'd  if  I  iver  let  goa  ! 
Coom  !  coom  !  feyther,'  'e  says,  *  why 

shouldn't  thy  booaks  be  sowd  ? 
I  hears  es  soom  o'  thy  booaks  mebbe 

worth  their  weight  i'  gowd.' 

XI. 

Heaps  an'  heaps  o'  booaks,  I  ha*  see'd 

'em  belong'ii  to  the  Squire, 
But  the  lasses  'ed  teard  out  leaves  i' 

the  middle  to  kindle  the  fire  ; 
Sa  moast  on  'is  owd  big  booaks  fetch' d 

nigh  to  iiowt  at  the  saale, 
And  Squire  were  at  Charlie  agean  to 

git  'im  to  cut  off  'is  taail. 

XII. 

Ya  wouldn't  find  Charlie's  likes — 'e 

were  that  outdacious  at  'oam, 
Not  thaw  ya  went  fur  to  raake  out  Hell 

wi'  a  small-tooth  coamb — 
Droonk   wi'  the  Quoloty's  wine,  an' 

droonk  wi'  the  farmer's  alile, 
Mad  wi'  the  lasses  an'  all  —  an'  *e 

wouldn't  cut  olf  the  taail. 

XIII. 

Thou'8  coom'd  oop  by  the  beck  ;  and  a 

thurn  be  a-grawin'  theer, 
t  niver  ha  seed  it  sa  white  wi'  the 

Maay  es  I  see'd  it  to-year — 
riieerabouts  Charlie  joompt— and  it 

gied  me  a  scare  tother  night, 


Fur  I  thowt  it  wur  Charlie's  ghoast  i* 

the  derk,  fur  it  looakt  sa  white. 
'  Billy,'  says  'e,  '  hev  a  joomp  !  '—thaw 

the  banks  o'  the  beck  be  sa  high, 
Fur  he  ca'd  'is  'erse  Billy-rough-un, 

thaw  niver  a  hair  wur  awry  ; 
But  Billy  fell  bakkuds  o'  Charlie,  an' 

Charlie  'e  broke  'is  neck, 
So  theer  wur  a  hend  o'  the  taail,  fur  'e 

lost  his  taail  i'  the  beck. 

xiv. 

Sa  'is  taail  wur  lost  an  'is  booaks  wur 

gone  an'  'is  bo;^  wur  dead, 
An'  Squire  'e  smiled  an'  'e  smiled,  but 

'e  niver  not  lift  oop  'is  'ead  : 
Hallus  a  soft  un  Squire  !  an'  'e  smiled, 

fur  e  hedn't  navv  friend, 
Sa  feyther  an'  son  was  buried  togither, 

an'  this  wur  the  hend. 

XV. 

An'  Parson  as  hesn't  the  call,  nor  the 

mooney,  but  hes  the  pride, 
'E  reads  of  a  sewer  an'  sartan  'oap  o' 

the  tother  side  ; 
But  I  beant  that  sewer  es  the  Lord, 

howsiver  they  praay'd  an'  praay'd, 
Lets  them  inter  'eaven  easy  es  leaves 

their  debts  to  be  paaid. 
Siver  the  mou'ds  rattled  upo'  poor 

owd  Squire  i'  the  wood. 
An'  I  cried  along  wi'  the  gells,  for  they 

weant  niver  coom  to  naw  good . 

XVI. 

Fur  Molly  the  youngest  walkt  awaay 

wi'  a  hofficer  lad, 
An'  Lucy  wur  laame  o'  one  leg,  sweet- 

'arts  she  niver  'ed  none — 
Straange  an'  unheppen  *  Miss  Lucy  ! 

we  naamed  her  *  Dot  an'  gaw  one  ! ' 
An'  Hetty  wur  weak  i'  the  hattica, 

wi'out  ony  harm  i'  the  legs. 
An'  the  fever  'ed  baaked  Jinny's  'ead 

as  bald  as  one  o'  them  heggs. 
An'  Nelly  wur  up  fro'  the  craadle  as 

big  i'  the  mouth  as  a  cow. 
An'  saw  she  mun  hammergrate,t  lass, 

or  she  weant  git  a  maate  onyhow  ! 
An'  es  fur  Miss  Annie  es  call'd  me 

afoor  my  awn  foalks  to  my  faace 
*  A  hignorant  village  wife  as  'udhevto 

be  larn'd  her  own  plaace,' 
•  lliifjainiy,  awkward. 


IN^  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL. 


597 


Hea  fur  Miss  Hannie  the  heldest  hes 

now  be  a-grawin'  sa  howd, 
I  knaws  that  mooch  o'  shea,  es  it  beant 

not  fit  to  be  towd  ! 

XVII. 

Sa  I  didn't  not  taake  it  kindly  ov  owd 

Miss  Annie  to  saay 
Es  I  should  be  talkin'  agean'  em,  es 

soon  es  they  went  waay. 
Fur,  lawks !  'ow  1  cried  when  they 

went,  an'  our  Nelly  she  gied  me  'er 

'and, 

Fur  I'd  ha  done  owt  fur  the  Squire  an' 
'is  gells  es  belong'd  to  the  land  ; 

Booaks,  es  I  said  af oor,  thebbe  neyther 
'ere  nor  theer  ! 

But  1  sarved  'em  wi'  butter  an'  heggs 
fur  huppuds  o'  twenty  year. 

XVIII. 

An'  they  hallus  paaid  what  I  hax'd,  as 

I  hallus  deal'd  wi'  the  Hall, 
An'  they  knaw'd  what  butter  wur,  an' 

they  knaw'd  what  a  hegg  wur  an'  all; 
Hugger-mugger  they  lived,  but  they 

wasn't  easy  to  please. 
Till  1  gied  'em  Hinjian  curn,  an'  they 

laaid  big  eggs  es  tha  seeas  ; 
Au'  I  niver  puts  saame  *  i'  my  butter, 

they  does  it  at  Willis's  farm, 
Taaste  another  drop  o'  the  wine — 

tweant  do  tha  naw  harm. 

XIX, 

Sa  new  Squire's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in 

'is  'and,  'and  owd  Squire's  gone  ; 
I  heard  'im  a  roomlin'  by,  but  arter 

my  nightcap  wur  on  ; 
Sa  I  han't  clapt  eyes  on  'im  yit,  fur  he 

coom'd  last  night  sa  laate — 
Pluksh  ! ! !  t  the  hens  i'  the  peas  !  why 

didn't  tha  hesp  the  gaate  ? 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL, 

EMMIE. 


Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I 
never  had  seen  him  before, 

*  Lard. 

t  A  cry  accompanied  by  a  clapping  of  hands 
to  soare  trespassing  fowl. 


But  he  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart  when  I 

saw  him  come  in  at  the  door, 
Fresh  from  the   surgery-schools  of 

France  and  of  other  lands — 
Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chest, 

big  merciless  hands  ! 
Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O  yes, 

but  they  said  too  of  him 
He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than  in 

trying  to  save  the  limb, 
And  that  I  can  well  believe,  for  he 

look'd  »o  coarse  and  so  red, 
I  could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who 

would  break  their  jests  on  the  dead. 
And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had 

loved  him  and  fawn'd  at  his  knee — 
Drench' d  with  the  hellish  oorali — that 

ever  such  a  thing  should  be  ! 

II. 

Here  was  a  boy— I  am  sure  that  some 

of  our  children  would  die 
But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the 

smile,  and  the  comforting  eye- 
Here  was  a  boy  in  the  ward,  every  bone 

seemed  out  of  its  place — 
Caught  in  a  mill  and  crush'd— it  was 

all  but  a  hopeless  case  : 
And  he  handled  him  gently  enough  ; 

but  his  voice  and  his  face  were  not 

kind, 

And  it  was  but  a  hopeless  case,  he  had 

seen  it  and  made  up  his  mind, 
And  he  said  to  me  roughly, '  The  lad 

will  need  little  more  of  your  care.' 
<  All  the  more  need,'  I  told  him,  *  to 

seek  the  Lord  Jesus  in  prayer  ; 
They  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I 

pray  for  them  all  as  my  own  ; ' 
But  he  turned  to  me,'  Ay,  good  woman, 

can  a  prayer  set  a  broken  bone  ?' 
Then  he  mutter' d  half  to  himself,  but 

I  know  that  I  heard  him  say 
'  All  very  well — but  the  good  Lord 

Jesus  has  had  his  day.' 

III. 

Had?   has  it  come?    It   has  only 

dawn'd.   It  will  come  by  and  by. 
O  how  could  I  serve  in  the  wards  if  the 

hope  of  the  world  were  a  lie  ? 
How  could  I  bear  with  the  sights  and 

the  loathsome  smells  of  disease, 
But  that  He  said  '  Ye  do  it  to  me,  whex 

ye  do  it  to  these?* 


m  THE  CHILDREN* S  HOSPITAL. 


IV. 

So  he  went.   And  we  past  to  this  ward 

where  the  younger  children  are  laid : 
Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  dar- 
ling, our  meek  little  maid  ; 
Empty  you  see  just  now  !   We  have 

lost  her  who  loved  her  so  much — 
Patient  of  pain  tho'  as  quick  as  a  sen- 
sitive plant  to  the  touch  ; 
Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often 

moved  me  to  tears, 
Hers  was  the  gratef  ullest  heart  I  have 

found  in  a  child  of  her  years — 
Nay  you  remember  our  Emmie  ;  you 

used  to  send  her  the  flowers  ;  • 
tlow  she  would  smile  at  'em,  play  with 

'em,  talk  to  'em  hours  after  hours  ! 
i'hey  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the 

works  of  the  Lord  are  reveal'd 
i^ittle  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from  a 

cowslip  out  of  the  field  ; 
Flowers  to  these  *  spirits  in  prison  '  are 

all  they  can  know  of  the  spring, 
They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards 

like  the  waft  of  an  Angel's  wing  ; 
And  she  lay  with  a  flower  in  one  hand 

and  her  thin  hands  crost  on  her 

breast- 
Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  heart  can  desire, 

and  we  thought  her  at  rest. 
Quietly  sleeping — so  quiet,  our  doctor 

said  *  Poor  little  dear. 
Nurse,  I  must  do  it  to-morrow  ;  she'll 

never  live  thro'  it,  I  fear.' 

v. 

I  walk'd  with  our  kindly  old  Doctor  as 

far  as  the  head  of  the  'stair, 
Then  I  return'd  to  the  ward  ;  the  child 

didn't  see  I  was  there. 

VI. 

Never  since  I  was  nurse,  had  I  been  so 

crrieved  and  so  vext ! 
Kmmie  had  heard  him.   Softly  she 

ciU'd  from  her  cot  to  the  next, 
*He  says  I  shall  never  live  thro'  it,  O 

Annie  what  shall  I  do?' 
Annie  consider'd.  *  If  I,'  said  the  wise 

little  Annie,  'was  you, 
I  should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to 

help  me,  for,  Emmie,  you  see, 
Tt's  all  in  the  picture  there  :  "  Little 

children  ehould  come  to  me." '  


(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us,  1 

find  that  it  always  can  please 
Our  children,  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  with 

children  about  his  knees.) 
*  Yes,  and  1  will,'  said  Emmie,  '  but 

then  if  I  call  to  the  Lord, 
How  should  he  know  that  it's  me  ? 

such  a  lot  of  beds  in  the  ward  !  * 
That  was  a  puzzle  for  Annie.  Again 

she  consider'd  and  said  : 
'  Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and 

you  leave  'em  outside  on  the  bed— 
The  Lord  has  so  much  to  see  to  !  but^ 

Emmie,  you  tell  it  him  plain. 
It's  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying 

out  on  the  counterpane.' 

VII. 

I  had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child— I 

could  not  watch  her  for  four — 
My  brain  had  begun  to  reel— I  felt  I 

could  do  it  no  more. 
That  was  my  sleeping-night,  but  I 

thought  that  it  never  would  pass. 
There  was  a  thunder-clap  once,  and  a 

clatter  of  hail  on  the  glass, 
And  there  was  a  phantom  cry  that  I 

heard  as  I  tost  about, 
The  motherless  bleat  of  a  lamb  in  the 

storm  and  the  darkness  without ; 
My  sleep  was  broken  besides  witb 

dreams  of  the  dreadful  knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who 

scarce  would  escape  with  her  life  ; 
Then  in  the  gray  of  morning  it  seem*d 

she  stood  by  me  and  smiled, 
And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and 

we  went  to  see  to  the  child. 

VIII. 

He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools  :  w# 

believed  lier  asleep  again— 
Her  dear,  long,  clean,  little  arms  lying 

out  on  the  counterpane  ; 
S.ay  that  His  day  is  done  !   Ah  why 

should  we  care  what  they  say  ? 
The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard 

her,  and  Emmie  had  past  away. 

SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD 
COBHAM. 
(IN  WALES.) 

My  friend  should  meet  me  somewhert 

hereabout 
To  take  me  to  that  hiding  in  the  hille. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COBHAM. 


599 


i  have  broke  their  cage,  no  gilded 
one,  I  trow— 
X  read  no  more  the  prisoner's  mute 
wail 

Scribbled  or  carved  upon  the  pitiless 
stone  ; 

I  find  hard  rocks,  hard  life,  hard  cheer, 
or  none, 

For  I  am  emptier  than  a  friar's  brains  ; 

But  God  is  with  me  in  this  wilderness. 

These  wet  black  passes  and  foam- 
churning  chasms, — 

And  God's  free  air,  and  hope  of  better 
things. 

I  would  I  knew  their  speech ;  not 
now  to  glean 

Not  now — I  hope  to  do  it — some  scat- 
ter'd  ears, 

Some  ears  for  Christ  in  this  wild  field 
of  Wales— 

But,  bread,  merely  for  bread.  This 
tongue  that  wagg'd 

They  said  with  such  heretical  arro- 
gance 

Against  the  proud  archbishop  Arun- 
del— 

So  mu^h  God's  cause  was  fluent  in  it — 
is  here 

But  as  a  Latin  Bible  to  the  crowd  ; 
*  Bara  ! ' — what  use  ?  The  Shepherd, 

when  I  speak, 
Veilling  a  sullen  eyelid  with  his  hard 
'  Dim  Saesneg '  passes,  wroth  at  things 

of  old- 
No  fault  of  mine.   Had  he  God's  word 

in  Welsh 

He  might  be  kindlier  :  happily  come 
the  day  ! 

Not  least  art  thou,  thou  little  Beth- 
lehem 

In  Judah,  for  in  thee  the  Lord  was 
born  ; 

Nor  thou  in  Britain,  little  Lutterworth 
Least^  for  in  thee  the  word  was  born 
again. 

Heaven-sweet  Evangel,  ever-living 
word, 

Who  whilom  spakest  to  the  South  in 
Greek 

About  the  soft  Mediterranean  shores, 
And  then  in  Latin  to  the  Latin  crowd, 
A&  good  need  was — thou  hast  come  to 
talk  our  isle. 


Hereafter  thou,  fulfilling  Pentecost, 
Must  learn  to  use  the  tongues  of  all  the 
world. 

Yet  art  thou  thine  own  witness  that 

thou  bringest 
Not  peace,  a  sword,  a  fire. 

What  did  he  say, 
My  frighted  Wiclif-preacher  whom  I 

crost 

In  flying  hither?  that  one  night  a 
crowd 

Throng'd  the  waste  field  about  the  city 


The  king  was  on  them  suddenly  with 
a  host. 

Why  there  ?  they  came  to  hear  their 

preacher.  Then 
Come  cried  on  Cobham,  on  the  good 

Lord  Cobham  ; 
Ay,  for  they  love  me  !  but  the  king— 

nor  voice 

Nor  finger  raised  against  him — took 
and  hang'd, 

Took,  hang'd  and  burnt— how  many- 
thirty  nine — 

Call'd  it  rebellion— hang'd  poor  friends 
as  rebels 

And  burn'd  alive  as  heretics !  for  your 
Priest 

Labels — to  take  the  king  along  with 
him — 

All  heresy,  treason ;  but  to  call  men 

traitors 
May  make  men  traitors. 

Rose  of  Lancaster, 
Red  in  thy  birth,  redder  with  house- 
hold war, 

Now  reddest  with  the  blood  of  holy 
men. 

Redder  to  be,  red  rose  of  Lancaster — 
If  somewhere  in  the  North,  as  Rumor 
sang 

Fluttering  the  hawks  of  this  crown- 
lusting  line — 

By  firth  and  loch  thy  silver  sister 
grow,* 

That  were  my  rose,  there  my  allegiance 
due. 

Self-starved,  they  say— nay,  murder'd; 

doubtless  dead. 
So  to  thin  king  I  cleaved  :  my  friend 

was  he. 

*  Ilichard  IL 


600 


SIR  JOHH  OLDCASTLBy  LORD  COBHAM, 


Once  my  fast  friend :  I  would  have  |  That  shook  our  sides— at  Pardoners, 

given  my  life  I  Summoners, 

To  help  his  own  from  scathe,  a  thou-  I  Friars,  absolution-sellers,  monkeries 
sand  lives  And  nunneries,  when  the  wild  hour 


To  save  his  soul.  He  might  have  come 
to  learn 

Our  Wiclif 's  learning  :  hut  the  world- 
ly Priests 

Who  fear  the  king's  hard  common- 
sense  should  find 

What  rotten  piles  uphold  their  mason- 
work, 

Urge  him  to  foreign  war.  O  had  he 
will'd 

I  might  have  stricken  a  lusty  stroke 
for  him. 

But  he  would  not  ;  far  liever  led  my 
friend 

Back  to  the  pure  and  universal  church, 
But  he  would  not :  whether  that  heir- 
less flaw 

In  his  throne's  title  make  him  feel  so 
frail, 

He  leans  on  Antichrist  ;  or  that  his 
mind, 

So  quick,  so  capable  in  soldiership, 
In  matters  of  the  faith,  alas  the  while  ! 
More  worth  than  all  the  kingdoms  of 

this  world, 
Runs  in  the  rut,  a  coward  to  the  Priest. 

Burnt— good  Sir  Roger  Acton,  my 
dear  friend  ! 

Burnt  too,  my  faithful  preacher, 
Beverley  ! 

Lord  give  thou  power  to  thy  two  wit- 
nesses ! 

Lest  the  false  faith  make  merry  over 
them  ! 

Two— nay  but  thirty-nine  have  risen 
and  stand. 

Dark  with  the  smoke  of  human  sacri- 
fice, 

Before  thy  light,  and  cry  continually — 
Cry— against  whom  ? 

Him  who  should  bear  the  sword 
Of  Justice— what  !  the  kingly,  kindly 
boy  ; 

Who  took  the  world  so  easily  here- 
tofore. 

My  boon  companion,  tavern-fellow— 
him 

Who  gibed  and  japed— in  many  a  merry 
tale 


and  the  wine 
Had  set  the  wits  aflame. 

Harry  of  Monmouth, 
Or  Amurath  of  the  East  ? 

Better  to  sink 
Thy  fleurs-de-lys  in  slime  again,  and 
fling 

Thy  royalty  back  into  the  riotous  fits 
Of  wine  and  harlotry— thy  shame,  and 
mine, 

Thy  comrade — than  to  persecute  the 
Lord, 

And  play  the  Saul  that  never  will  be 
Paul. 

Burnt,  burnt !  and  while  this  mitred 
Arundel 

Dooms  our  unlicensed  preacher  to  the 
flame. 

The  mitre-sanction'd  harlot  draws  hia 
clerks 

Into  the  suburb— their  hard  celibacy, 
Sworn  to  be  veriest  ice  of  pureness, 
molten 

Into  adulterous  living,  or  such  crimes 
As  holy  Paul— a  shame  to  speak  of 

them— 
Among  the  heathen — 

Sanctuary^  granted 
To  bandit,  thief,  assassin— yea  to  him 
Who  hacks  his  mother's  throat— denied 
to  him, 

Who  finds  the  Saviour  in  his  mother 
tongue. 

The  Gospel,  the  Priest's  pearl,  flung 

down  to  swine — 
The  swine,  lay-men,  lay-women,  who 

will  come, 
God  willing,  to  outlearn  the  filthy 

friar. 

Ah  rather,  Lord,  than  that  thy  Gospel, 
meant 

To  course  and  range  thro*  all  the  world, 
should  be 

Tether'd  to  these  dead  piUars  of  th« 
Church — 

Rather  than  so,  if  thou  wilt  have  it  so, 
Burst  vein,  snap  sinew,  and  crack 
heart,  and  life 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COB  HAM. 


6Gi 


Pass  in  the  fire  of  Babylon  !  but  bow 

long, 
O  Lord,  bow  long  ! 

My  friend  should  meet  me  here. 
Here  is  the  copse,  the  fountain  and— a 
Cross  ! 

To  thee,  dead  wood,  I  bow  not  head 

nor  knees. 
Rather  to  thee,  green  boscage,  work  of 

God, 

Black  holly,  and  white-flower'd  way- 
faring-tree ! 

Rather  to  thee,  thou  living  water, 
drawn 

By  this  good  Wiclif  mountain  down 

from  heaven, 
And  speaking  clearly  in  thy  native 

tongue- 
No  Latin— He  that  thirsteth,  come  and 

drink ! 

Eh  !  how  I  angered  Arundel  asking 
me 

To  worship  Holy  Cross !  I  spread 
mine  arms,  [blood 

God's  work,  I  said,  a  cross  of  flesh  and 

And  holier.  That  was  heresy.  (My 
good  friend 

By  this  time  should  be  with  me.) 
'  Images  ? ' 

*  Bury  them  as  God's  truer  images 
Are  daily  buried.'      '  Heresy.— Pen- 
ance ? '    '  Fast, 

Hairshirt  and  scourge — nay,  let  a  man 
repent, 

Do  penance  in  his  heart,  God  hears 

him.'    '  Heresy — 
Not  shriven,  not   saved  ? '     *  What 

profits  an  ill  Priest 
Between  me  and  my  God?    I  would 

not  spurn 

Good  counsel  of  good  friends,  but 
shrive  myself, 

No,  not  to  an  Apostle.'   '  Heresy.' 

(My  friend  is  long  in  coming.)  'Pil- 
grimages ? ' 

*  Drink,  bagpipes,  revelling,  devil's- 

dances,  vice. 
The  poor  ^an's  money  gone  to  fat  the 
friar. 

Who  reads  of  begging  saints  in  Scrip- 
ture ? ' — *  Heresy ' — 

(Hath  he  been  here— not  found  me— 
gone  again  ? 


Have  I  mislearnt  our  place  of  meet- 
ing ?)   *  Bread- 
Bread  left  after  the  blessing?'  how 

they  stared, 
That  was  their  main  test-question  — 

glared  at  me ! 
'  He  veil'd  Himself  in  flesh,  and  now 
He  veils 

His  flesh  in  bread,  body  and  bread  to- 
gether.' 

Then  rose  the  howl  of  all  the  cassock'd 
wolves, 

♦  No  bread,  no  bread.   God's  body  !  * 

Archbishop,  Bishop, 
Priors,  Canons,  Friars,  bell-ringers, 

Parish-clerks— 
'  No  bread,  no  bread  ! '— *  Authority  of 

the  Church, 
Power  of  the  keys  !  '—Then  I,  God  help 

me,  I 

So  mock'd,  so  spurn'd,  so  baited  two 

whole  days — 
I  lost  myself  and  fell  from  evenness, 
And  rail'd  at  all  the  Popes,  that  ever 

since 

Sylvester  shed  the  venom  of  world- 
wealth 

Into  the  church,  had  only  prov'n  them- 
selves 

Poisoners,  murderers.  Well— God  par- 
don all— 

Me,  them,  and  all  the  world- yea,  that 
proud  Priest, 

That  mock-meek  mouth  of  utter  Anti- 
christ, 

That  traitor  to  King  Richard  and  the 
truth, 

Who  rose  and  doom'd  me  to  the  fire. 

Amen  ! 

Nay,  I  can  burn,  so  that  the  Lord  of  life 
Be  by  me  in  my  death. 

Those  three  !  the  fourth 
Was  like  the  son  of  God.   Not  burnt 

were  they.  [past. 
On  them  the  smell  of  burning  had  not 
That  was  a  miracle  to  convert  the  king. 
These  Pharisees,  this  Caiaphas-Arun- 

del 

What  miracle  could  turn?  He  here 
again, 

He  thwarting  their  traditions  of  Him- 
self, 

He  would  be  found  a  heretic  to  Himself, 
And  doom'd  to  burn  alive. 


m 


COLUMBUS, 


So,  caught,  I  burn. 
Burn?  heathen  men  have  borne  as 

much  as  this, 
For  freedom,  or  the  sake  of  those  they 

loved. 

Or  some  less  cause,  some  cause  far  less 

than  mine ; 
For  every  other  cause  is  less  than  mine. 
The  moth  will  singe  her  wings,  and 

singed  return. 
Her  love  of  light  quenching  her  fear  of 

pain — 

How  now,  my  soul,  we  do  not  heed  the 
fire? 

Faint-hearted  ?  tut !— faint-stomach'd  ! 

faint  as  I  am, 
God  willing,  I  will  burn  for  Him. 

Who  comes  ? 
A  thousand  marks  are  set  upon  my 
head. 

Friend?— foe  perhaps— a  tussle  for  it 
then  ! 

Nay,  but  my  friend.   Thou  art  so  well 

disguised,^ 
I  knew  thee  not.   Hast  thou  brought 

bread  with  thee  ? 
I  have  not  broken  bread  for  fifty  hours. 
None  ?  I  am  daran'd  aLeady  by  the 

Priest 

For  holding  there  was  bread  where 
bread  was  none — 

No  bread.  My  friends  await  me  yon- 
der? Yes. 

Lead  on  then.  Up  the  mountain  ?  Is 
it  far  ? 

Not  far.    Climb  first  and  reach  me 

down  thy  hand. 
I  am  not  like  to  die  for  lack  of  bread, 
For  I  must  live  to  testify  by  fire.* 


COLUMBUS. 

Chains,  my  good  lord  :  in  your  raised 
brows  I  read 

Some  wonder  at  our  chamber  orna- 
ments. 

We  brought  this  iron  from  our  isles  of 
gold. 

Does  the  king  know  you  deign  to 
visit  him 

•  He  was  burnt  on  Christmas  Day,  1417. 


Whom  once  he  rose  from  off  his  throne 

to  greet 

Before  his  people,  like  his  brother 
king? 

I  saw  your  face  that  morning  in  the 
crowd. 

At  Barcelona — tho'  you  were  not 
then 

So  bearded.    Yes.    The  city  deck'd 
herself 

To  meet  me,  roar'd  my  name  ;  the 

king,  the  queen 
Bade  me  be  seated,  speak,  and  tell 

them  all 

The  story  of  my  voyage,  and  while  I 
spoke 

The  crowd's  roar  fell  as  at  the  *  Peace, 
be  still  ! ' 

And  when  I  ceased  to  speak,  the  king, 

the  queen, 
Sank  from  their  thrones,  and  melted 

into  tears, 
And  knelt,  and  lifted  hand  and  heart 

and  voice 

In  praise  to  God  who  led  me  thro'  the 
waste. 

And  then  the  great  *  Laudamus '  rose 
to  heaven. 

Chains  for  the  Admiral  of  the  Ocean  ! 
chains 

For  him  who  gave  a  new  heaven,  a  new 
earth, 

As  holy  John  had  prophesied  of  me. 
Gave  glory  and  more  empire  to  the 
kings 

Of  Spain  than  all  their  battles  !  chains 
for  liim 

Who  push'd  his  prows  into  the  setting 
sun, 

And  made  West  East,  and  sail'd  the 

Dragon's  mouth. 
And  came  upon  the  Mountain  of  the 

World, 

And  saw  the  rivers  roll  from  Paradise  ! 

Chains !  we  are  Admirals  of  the 

Ocean,  we, 
We  and  our  sons  forever.  Ferdinand 
Hath  sign'd  it  and  our  Holy  Catholic 

queen— 

Of  the  Ocean— of  the  Indies— Admirals 
we— 

Our  title,  which  we  never  mean  toyield, 


COLUMBUS, 


Our  guerdon  not  alone  for  what  we  did, 
But  our  amends  for  all  we  might  have 
done— 

The  vast  occasion  of  our  stronger  lif  e— 
Eighteen  long  years  of  waste,  seven  in 

your  Spain, 
Lost,  showing  courts  and  kings  a  truth 

the  habe 

Will  suck  in  with  his  milk  hereafter- 
earth 

A  sphere. 

Were  you  at  Salamanca  ?  No. 

We  fronted  there  the  learning  of  all 
Spain, 

All  their  cosmogonies,  their  astrono- 
mies : 

Guess-work  they  guess'd  it,  but  the 

golden  guess 
Is  morning-star  to  the  full  round  of 

truth. 

No  guess-work  !  I  was  certain  of  my 
goal ; 

Some  thought  it  heresy  ;  that  would 
not  hold. 

King  David  call'd  the  heavens  a  hide, 
a  tent 

Spread  over  earth,  and  so  this  earth 
was  flaC : 

Some  cited  old  Lactantius  :  could  it  be 
!rhat  trees  grew  downward,  rain  fell 

upward,  men 
Walk'd  like  the  fly  on  ceilings  ?  and 

besides. 

The  great  Augustine  wrote  that  none 

could  breathe 
Within  the  zone  of  heat ;  so  might 

there  be 

Two  Adams,  two  mankinds,  and  that 
was  clean 

Against  God's  word  :  thus  was  I  beaten 
back, 

And  chiefly  to  my  sorrow  by  the  Church , 

And  thought  to  turn  my  face  from 
Spain,  appeal 

Once  more  to  France  or  England  ;  but 
our  Queen 

Recall'd  me,  for  at  last  their  High- 
nesses 

Were  half-assured  this  earth  might  be 
a  sphere. 

All  glory  to  the  all-blessed  Trinity, 
All  glory  to  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 
And  Holy  Church,  from  whom  I  never 

swerved 


603 

one  hair's-breadth  of 


Not  even  by 
heresy, 

I  have  accomplish'd  what  I  came  to  do. 


-last  night  a  dream 
the 


Not  yet — not  all- 
—I  saiTd 
On  my  flrst  voyage,  harass'd  by 
frights 

Of  my  flrst  crew,  their  curses  and  their 
groans. 

The  great  flame-banner  borne  by  Tene- 
rilfe. 

The  compass,  like  an  old  friend  false 
at  last 

In  our  most  need,  appall'd  them,  and 
the  wind 

Still  westward,  and  the  weedy  seas — at 
length 

The  landbird,  and   the  branch  with 

berries  on  it, 
The  carven  staff— and  last  the  light, 

the  light 

On   Guaiiahani !  but  I  changed  the 
name  ; 

San  Salvador  I  call'd  it ;  and  the  light 
Grew  as  I  gazed,  and  brought  out  a 

broad  sky 
Of  dawning  over — not  those  alien  palms, 
The  marvel  of  that  fair  new  nature — 

not 

That  Indian  isle,  but  our  most  ancient 
East 

Moriah  with  Jerusalem  ;  and  I  saw 
The  glory  of  the  Lord  flash  up,  and 
beat 

Thro'  all  the  homely  town  from  jasper, 

sapphire,  [dius, 
Chalcedony,  emerald,  sardonyx,  sar- 
Chrysolite,  beryl,  topaz,  chrysoprase. 
Jacinth,  and    amethyst  —  and  those 

twelve  gates, 
Pearl— and  I  woke,  and  thought— death 

— I  shall  die — 
I  am  written  in  the  Lamb's  own  Book 

of  Life 

To  walk  within  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
Sunless  and  moonless,  utter  light— but 
no  ! 

The  Lord  had  sent  this  bright,  strange 

dream  to  me 
To  mind  me  of  the  secret  vow  I  made 
When  Spain  was  waging  war  against 

the  Moor — 
I  strove  myself  with  Spain  against  th« 

Moor. 


604 


coir  MB  US. 


There  came  two  voices  from  the  Sepul- 
chre, 

Two  friars  crying  that  if  Spain  should 
oust 

The  Moslem  from  her  limit,  he,  the 
fierce 

Soldan  of  Egypt,  would  break  down 
and  raze 

The  blessed  tomb  of  Christ ;  whereon 
I  vow'd 

That,  if  our  Princes  harken'd  to  my 
prayer, 

Whatever  wealth  I  brought  from  that 

new  world 
Should,  in  this  old,  be  consecrate  to 

lead 

A  new  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And  free  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from 
thrall. 

Gold  ?  I  had  brought  your  Princes 

gold  enough 
If  left  alone  !   Being  but  a  Genovese, 
I  am  handled  worse  than  had  I  been  a 

Moor, 

And  breach'd  the  belting  wall  of  Cam- 
balu, 

And  given  the  Great  Khan's  palaces  to 
the  Moor. 

Or  cliitch'd  the  sacred  crown  of  Piester 
John, 

And  cast  it  to  the  Moor  :  but  Jiad  I 
brouglit 

From  Solomon's  now-recover'd  Ophir 
all 

The  gold  that  Solomon's  navies  carried 
home, 

Would  that  have  gilded  me?  Blue 

blood  of  Spain, 
Tho'  quartering  your  own  royal  arms  of 

Sr)ain, 

1  have  not :  blue  blood  and  black  blood 
of  Spain, 

The  noble  and  the  convict  of  Castile, 
Howl'd  me  from  Hispaniola;  for  you 
know 

The  flies  at  home,  that  ever  swarm 
about 

And  cloud  the  highest  heads,  and  mur- 
mur down 

Truth  in  the  distance  —  these  out- 
buzz'd  me  so 

That  even  our  prudent  king,  our  right- 
eous (jueen — 

I  pray'd  them  being  bo  calumniated 


They  would  commission  one  of  weight 

and  worth 
To  judge  between  my  slauder'd  self 

and  me — 

Fonseca  my  main  enemy  at  their  court, 
They  send  me  out  his  tool,  Bovadilla, 
one 

As  ignorant  and  impolitic  as  a  beast- 
Blockish  irreverence,  brainless  greed 

— who  sack'd 
My  dwelling,  seized  upon  my  papers, 

loosed 

My  captives,  feed  the  rebels  of  the 
crown. 

Sold  the  crown-farms  for  all  but  noth- 
ing, gave 

All  but  free  leave  for  all  to  work  the 
mines, 

Drove  me  and  my  good  brothers  home 
in  chains. 

And  gathering  ruthless  gold — a  single 

piece 

Weigh'd  idgh  four  thousand  Castillanos 
—so 

They  tell  me — weigh'd  him  down  into 

the  abysm — 
The  hurricane  of  the  latitude  on  him 

fell, 

The  seas  of  our  discovering  over-roll 
Ilini  and  his  gold  ;  the  frailer  caravel, 
With  what  was  mine,  came  happily  to 

the  shore. 
There  was  a  glimmering  of  God's  hand 

And  God 

Hath  more  than  glimmer' d  on  me.  O 
niy  lord, 

1  swear  to  you  I  heard  his  voice  be- 
tween 

The  thunders  in  the  black  Veragua 
nights, 

*  O  soul  of  little  faith,  slow  to  believe  ! 
Have  J  not  been  about  thee  from  thy 
birth  ? 

Given  thee  the  keys  of  the  great  Ocean- 
sea? 

Set  thee  in  light  till  time  shall  be  no 
more  ? 

Is  it  I  who  have  deceived  thee  or  the 
world  ? 

Endure  !  thou  hast  done  so  well  for 

men,  that  men 
(Jry  out  against  thee  :  was  it  otherwise 
With  mine  own  Son  !  * 


COLUMBUS. 


605 


And  more  than  once  in  days 
Of  doubt  and  cloud  and  storm,  when 

drowning  hope 
Sank  all  but  out  of  sight,  I  heard  his 

voice, 

'  Be  not  cast  down.  I  lead  thee  by  the 
hand, 

Fear  not.'  And  I  shall  hear  his  voice 
again — 

I  know  that  he  has  led  me  all  my  life, 
I  am  not  yet  too  old  to  work  his  will— 
His  voice  again. 

Still  for  all  that,  my  lord, 
I  lying  here  bedridden  and  alone. 
Cast  oif,  put  by,  scouted  by  court  and 
king— 

The  first  discoverer  starves— his  fol- 
lowers, all 

Flower  into  fortune— our  world's  way 
— and  I, 

Without  a  roof  that  I  call  mine  own. 
With  scarce  a  coin  to  buy  a  meal  withal 
And  seeing  what  a  door  for  scoundrel 
scum 

I  open'd  to  the  West,  thro'  which  the 
lust, 

Villany,  violence,  avarice,  of  your 
Spain 

Pour'd  in  on  all  those  happy  naked 
isles— 

Their  kindly  native  princes  slain  or 
slaved. 

Their  wives  and  children  Spanish  con- 
cubines, 

Their  innocent  hospitalities  quench'd 
in  blood, 

Some  dead  of  hunger,  some  beneat  h 

the  scourge. 
Some  over-labor'd,  some  by  their  own 

hands,— 

Yea,  the  dear  mothers,  crazing  Nature, 
kill 

Their  babies  at  the  breast  for  hate  of 
Spain— 

Ah,  God,  the  harmless  people  whom 

we  found 
In  Hispaniola's  island-Paradise ! 
Who  took  us  for  the  very  Gods  from 

Heaven, 

And  we  have  sent  them  very  fiends 

from  Hell ; 
And  I  myself,  myself  not  blameless,  I 
Could  sometimes  wish  1  never  led  the 

way. 


Only  the  ghost  of  our  great  Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles  on  me,  saying,  *  Be  thou  com- 
forted ! 

This  creedless  people  will  be  brought 
to  Christ 

And  own  the  holy  governance  of 
Rome.' 

But  who  could  dream  that  we,  who 
bore  the  Cross 
Thither,  were  excommunicated  there, 
For  curbing  crimes  that  scandalized 

the  Cross, 
By  him,  the  Catalonian  Minorite, 
Kome's  Vicar  in  our  Indies  ?  who  be- 
lieve 

These  hard  memorials  of  our  truth  to 
Spain 

Clung  closer  to  us  for  a  longer  term 
Than  any  friend  of  ours  at  Court  ?  and 
yet 

Pardon— too  harsh,   unjust.     I  am 
rack'd  with  pains. 

You  see  that  I  have  hung  them  by 
my  bed. 

And  I  will  have  them  buried  in  my 
grave. 

Sir,  in  that  flight  of  ages  which  are 
God's 

Own  voice  to  justify  the  dead— per- 
chance 

Spain  once  the  most  chivalric  race  on 
earth, 

Spain  then  the  mightiest,  wealthiest 
realm  on  earth,  [me, 
So  made  by  me,  may  seek  to  unbury 
To  lay  me  in  some  shrine  of  this  old 
Spain, 

Or  in  that  vaster  Spain  I  leave  to 
Spain. 

Then  some  one  standing  by  my  grave 
will  say, 

'Behold   the  bones  of  Christopher 
Colon,' — 

*  Ay,  but  the  chains,  what  do  they 

mean — the  chains  ? ' — 
I  sorrow  for  that  kindly  child  of  Spain. 
Who  then  will  have  to  answer,  <  These 

same  chains 
Bound  these  same  bones  back  thro' 

the  Atlantic  sea, 
Which  he  unchain'd  for  all  the  world 

t«  come.' 


«06  THE  VOYAGE 

O  Queen  of  Heaven  who  seest  the 
souls  in  Hell 
And  purgatory,  I  suffer  all  as  much 
As  they  do— for  the  moment.  Stay, 

my  son 

Is  here  anon  :  my  son  will  speak  for 
me 

Ablier  than  I  can  in  these  spasms  that 
grind 

Bone  against  bone.  You  will  not.  One 
last  word. 

You  move  about  the  Court,  I  pray 
you  tell 

King  Ferdinand  who  plays  with  me, 
that  one, 

Whose  life  has  been  no  play  with  him 
and  his 

Hidalgos—shipwrecks,  famines,  fevers, 
fights, 

Mutinies,  treacheries — wink*d  at,  and 

condoned— 
That  I  am  loyal  to  him  till  the  death, 
And  ready— tho'  our  Holy  Catholic 

Queen, 

Who  fain  had  pledged  her  jewels  on 

my  first  voyage. 
Whose  hope  was  mine  to  spread  the 

Catholic  faith, 
Who  wept  with  me  when  I  return*d  in 

chains, 

Wlio  bits  beside  the  blessed  Virgin 
now. 

To  whom  I  send  my  prayer  by  night 

and  day — 
She  is  gone— but  you  will  tell  the  King, 

that  I, 

Rack'd  as  I  am  with  gout,  and  wrench'd 

with  pains 
Gain'd  in  the  service  of  His  Highness, 

yet 

Am  ready  to  sail  forth  on  one  last 
voyage, 

And  readier,  if  the  King  would  hear, 
to  lead 

One  last  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And  save  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from 
thrall. 

Going  ?  I  am  old  and  slighted  :  you 
have  dared 
Somewhat  perhaps  in  coming?  my 

poor  thanks ! 
I  am  but  an  alien  and  a  Geviovese. 


OF  MAELDUNE. 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNB. 
(Founded  on  an  Irish  Legend,  a.d. 


I  "WAS  the  chief  of  the  race— he  had 

stricken  ray  father  dead— 
But  I  gather'd  my  fellows  together,  I 

swore  I  would  strike  off  his  head. 
Each  of  them  look'd  like  a  king,  and 

was  noble  in  birth  as  in  worth, 
And  each  of  them  boasted  he  sprang 

from  the  oldest  race  upon  earth. 
Each  was  as  brave  in  the  tight  as  the 

bravest  hero  of  song. 
And  each  of  them  liefer  had  died  than 

have  done  one  another  a  wrong. 
He  lived  on  an  isle  in  the  ocean— we 

sail'd  on  a  Friday  morn- 
He  that  had  slain  my  father  the  day 

before  I  was  born. 

11. 

And  we  came  to  the  isle  in  the  ocean, 
and  there  on  the  shore  was  he. 

But  a  sudden  blast  blew  us  out  and 
away  thro'  a  boundless  sea, 

III. 

And  we  came  to  the  Silent  Isle  that 
we  never  had  touched  at  before. 

Where  a  silent  ocean  always  broke  on 
a  silent  shore, 

And  the  brooks  glitter'd  on  in  the  light 
without  sound,  and  the  long  water- 
falls 

Pour'd  in  a  tliunderless  plunge  to  the 

base  of  the  mountain  walls, 
And  the  poplar  and  cypress  unshaken 

by  storm  flourish'd  up  beyond  sight. 
And  the  pine  shot  aloft  from  the  crag 

to  an  unbelievable  height. 
And  high  in  the  heaven  above  there 

fiicker'd  a  songless  lark, 
And  the  cock  couldn't  crow,  and  the 

bull   couldn't  low,    and   the  dog 

couldn't  bark. 
And  round  it  we  went,  and  thro*  it, 

but  never  a  murmur,  a  breath — 
It  was  all  of  it  fair  as  life,  it  was  all  O: 

it  quiet  as  death, 
And  we  hated  the  beautiful  Isle,  foi 

whenever  we  strove  to  speak 
Our  voices  were  thinner  and  faintd 

than  any  liitter-mouse-shriek  ; 


THE  VOYAGE 

And  the  men  that  were  mighty  of 
tongue  and  could  raise  such  a  battle- 
cry 

That  a  hundred  who  heard  it  would 
rush  on  a  thousand  lances  and  die — 

O  they  to  be  dumb'd  by  the  charm  !— 
so  fluster'd  with  anger  were  they 

They  almost  fell  on  each  other;  but 
after  we  sail'd  away, 

IV. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Shouting 
we  landed,  a  score  of  wild  birds 

Cried  from  the  topmost  summit  with 
{     human  voices  and  words  ; 

Once  in  an  hour  they  cried,  and  when- 
ever their  voices  peal'd 

The  steer  fell  down  at  the  blow  and  the 

harvest  died  from  the  tield, 
'  And  the  men  dropt  dead  in  the  valleys 
and  half  of  the  cattle  went  lame, 

And  the  roof  sank  in  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  dwelling  broke  into  flame  ; 

And  the  shouting  of  these  wild  birds 
ran  into  the  hearts  of  my  crew, 

Till  they  shouted  along  with  the  shout- 
ing and  seized  one  another  and  slew; 

But  1  drew  them  the  one  from  the 
other ;  1  saw  that  we  could  not  stay, 

And  we  left  the  dead  to  the  birds  and 
we  sail'd  with  our  wounded  away. 


V. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Flowers  : 

their  breath  met  us  out  on  the  seas, 
For  the  Spring  and  the  middle  Summer 

sat  each  on  the  lap  of  the  breeze ; 
And  the  red  passion-flower  to  the  cliffs, 

and  the  dark  blue  clematis,  clung. 
And  starr'd  with  a  myriad  blossom  the 

long  convolvulous  hung ; 
And  the  topmost  spire  of  the  mountain 

was  lilies  in  lieu  of  snow, 
And  the  lilies  like  glaciers  winded 

down,  running  out  below 
Thro'  the  tire  of  the  tulip  and  poppy, 

the  blaze  of  gorse,  and  the  blush 
Of  millions  of  roses  that  sprang  with- 
out leaf  or  a  thorn  from  the  bush ; 
And  the  whole  isle-side  flashing  down 

from  the  peak  without  ever  a  tree 
Swept  like  a  torent  of  gems  from  the 

sky  to  the  blue  of  the  sea ; 


OF  MAELDUNE.  60T 

And  we  roU'd  upon  capes  of  crocus  and 

vaunted  our  kiih  and  our  kin, 
And  we  wallow'd  in  beds  of  lilies,  and 

chanted  the  triumph  of  Finn, 
Till  each  like  a  golden  image  waa 

pollen' d  from  head  to  feet 
And  each  was  as  dry  as  a  cricket,  with 

thirst  in  the  middle-day  heat. 
Blossom  and  blossom,  and  promise  of 

blossom,  but  never  a  fruit ! 
And  we  hated  the  Flowering  Isle,  as 

we  hated  the  isle  that  was  mute, 
And  we  tore  up  the  flowers  by  the 

million  and  flung  them  in  biglit  and 

bay, 

And  we  left  but  a  naked  rock,  and  in 
anger  we  sail'd  away. 


VI. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fruits  :  all 

round  from  the  cliffs  and  the  capes, 
Purple  or  amber,  dangled  a  hundred 

fathom  of  grapes, 
And  the  warm  melon  lay  like  a  little 

sun  on  the  tawny  sand, 
And  the  tig  ran  up  from  the  beach  and 

rioted  over  the  land, 
And    the    mountam   arose    like  a 

jewell'd  throne  thro'  the  fragrant 

air. 

Glowing  with  all-col or'd  plume  and 

with  golden  masses  of  pear, 
And  the  crimson  and  scailet  of  berries 

that  flamed  upon  bine  and  vine, 
But  in  every  berry  and  fruit  was  the 

poisonous  pleasure  of  wine  ; 
And  the  peak  of  the  mountain  was 

apples,  the  hugest  that  ever  were 

seen. 

And  they  prest,  as  they  grew,  on  each 

other  with  hardly  a  leaflet  between, 
And  all  of  them  redder  than  rosiest 

health  or  than  utterest  shame, 
And  setting,  when  Even  descended, 

the  very  sunset  aflame  ; 
And  we  stay'd  three  days,  and  we 

gorged  and  we  madden'd,  till  every 

one  drew 

His  sword  on  his  fellow  to  slay  him, 
and  ever  they  struck  and  they  slew  ; 

And  myself,  I  had  eaten  but  sparely, 
and  fought  till  I  sunder' d  the  fray. 

Then  I  bade  them  remember  my 
father's  death,  and  we  sail'd  away. 


60S 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE, 


VII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fire  :  we 

were  lured  by  the  light  from  afar, 
For  the  peak  sent  up  one  league  of  fire 

to  the  Northern  Star ; 
Lured  by  the  glare  and  the  blare,  but 

scarcely  could  stand  upright, 
For  the  whole  isle  shudder'd  and  shook 

like  a  man  in  a  mortal  alf right ; 
We  were  giddy  besides  with  the  fruits 

we  had  gorged,  and  so  crazed  that  at 

last 

There  were  some  leap'd  into  the  fire  ; 

and  away  we  sail'd,  and  we  past 
Over  that  undersea  isle,  where  the 

water  is  clearer  than  air  : 
Down  we  look'd  :  what  a  garden  !  O 

bliss,  what  a  Paradise  there  ! 
Towers  of  a  happier  lime,  low  down  in 

a  rainbow  deep  [sleep  ! 

Silent  palaces,  quiet  fields  of  eternal 
And  three  of  the  gentlest  and  best  of 

my  people,  whate'er  1  could  say, 
Plunged  head  down  in  the  sea,  and  the 

Paradise  trembled  away. 

VIII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Bounteous  Isle, 
where  the  heavens  lean  low  on  the 
land. 

And  ever  at  dawn  from  the  cloud  glit- 

ter'd  o'er  us  a  sunbright  hand. 
Then  it  open'd  and  dropt  at  the  side  of 

each  man,  as  he  rose  from  his  rest, 
Bread  enough  for  his  need  tjH  the  la- 

borless  day  dipt  under  the  West ; 
And  we  wander'd  about  it  and  thro*  it. 

O  never  was  time  so  good  ! 
And  we  sang  of  the  triumphs  of  Finn, 

and  the  boast  of  our  ancient  blood. 
And  we  gazed  at  the  wandering  wave 

as  we  sat  by  the  gurgle  of  springs. 
And  we  chanted  the  songs  of  the  Bards 

and  the  glories  of  fairy  kings  ; 
But  at  length  we  began  to  be  weary,  to 

sigh,  ana  to  stretch  and  yawn, 
Till  we  hated  the  Bounteous  Isle  and 

the  sunbright  hand  of  the  dawn. 
For  there  was  not  an  enemy  near,  but 

the  whole  green  Isle  was  our  own, 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  ball,  and  we 

took  to  throwing  the  stone, 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  battle,  but 

that  was  a  perilous  play. 
For  the  passion  of  battle  was  in  tis,  we 

»lew  and  we  sail'd  away* 


IX. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Witchei 

and  heard  their  musical  cry— 
*  Come  to  us,  O  come,  come*  in  the 

stormy  red  of  a  sky 
Dashing  the  tires  and  the  shadows  of 

dawn  on  the  beautiful  shapes, 
For  a  wild  witch  naked  as  heaven  stood 

on  each  of  the  loftiest  capes, 
And  a  hundred  ranged  on  the  rock 

like  white  sea-birds  in  a  row, 
And  a  hundred  ^amboll'd  and  pranced 

on  the  wrecks  in  the  sand  below, 
And  a   hundred  splash'd  from  the 

ledges,  and  bosom' d  the  burst  of  the 

spray, 

But  I  knew  we  should  fall  on  each 
other,  and  hastily  sail'd  away. 

X. 

And  we  came  in  an  evil  time  to  the 

Isle  of  the  Double  Towers  : 
One  was  of  smooth-cut  stone,  one 

carved  all  over  with  flowers  : 
But  an  earthquake  always  moved  in 

the  hollows  under  the  dells. 
And  they  shock'd  on  each  other  and 

butted  each  other  with  clashing  of 

bells. 

And  the  daws  flew  out  of  the  Towei-s 

and  jangled  and  wrangled  in  vain, 
And  the  clash  and  boom  of  the  bells  ran 

into  the  heart  and  the  brain, 
Till  the  passion  of  battle  was  on  us,  and 

all  took  sides  with  the  Towers, 
There  were  some  for  the  clean-cut 

stone,  there  were  more  for  the  carven 

flowers, 

And  the  wrathful  thunder  of  God 

peal'd  over  us  all  the  day. 
For  the  one  half  slew  the  other,  and 

after  we  sail'd  away. 

XI. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  a  Saint  who 

had  sail'd  with  St.  Brendan  of  yore. 
He  had  lived  ever  since  on  the  Isle  and 

his  winters  were  fifteen-score, 
And  his  voice  was  low  as  from  other 

worlds,  and  his  eyes  were  sweet. 
And  his  white  hair  sank  to  his  neels 

and  his  white  beard  fell  to  his  feet, 
And  ho  spake  to  me,  '  O  Maeldune,  let 

be  this  purpose  of  thine  ! 
llemember  the  words  of  the  Lord  when 

he  told  us   Vengeance  is  mine  I " 


DE  PnOFUKDIS, 


609 


His  fathers  have  slain  thy  fathers  in 

war  or  in  single  strife, 
Thy  fathers  have  slain  his  fathers,  each 

taken  a  life  for  a  life, 
Thy  father  had  slain  his  father,  how 

long  shall  the  murder  last  ? 
Go  back  to  the  Isle  of  Finn  and  suffer 

the  Fast  to  be  Past. ' 
And  we  kiss'd  the  fringe  of  his  beard 

and  we  pray'd  as  we  heard  him  pray. 
And  the  Holj[  man  he  assoil'd  us,  and 

sadly  we  sail'd  away. 

XII. 

And  we  came  to  the  Isle  we  were  blown 
from,  and  there  on  the  shore  was  he, 

The  man  that  had  slain  my  father.  I 
saw  him  and  let  him  be. 

O  weary  was  I  of  the  travel,  the  trou- 
ble, the  strife  and  the  sin, 

When  1  landed  again,  with  a  tithe  of 
my  men,  on  the  Isle  of  Finn. 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 

THE  TWO  GREETINGS. 
I. 

Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep, 

Where  all  that  was  to  be,  in  all  that 
was, 

Whirl'd  for  a  million  seons  thro*  the 
vast 

Waste  dawn  of  multitudinous-eddying 

light- 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep, 

Thro'  all  this  changing  world  of  change- 
less law, 

And  every  phase  of  ever-heightening 
life. 

And  nine  long  months  of  ante-natal 
gloom. 

With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent— her 
dark  orb 

Touch'd    with    earth's    light— thou 

comest,  darling  boy ; 
Our  own  ;  a  babe  in  lineament  and 

limb 

Perfect,  and  prophet  of  the  perfect 
man  ; 

Whose  face  and  form  are  hers  and  mine 
in  one, 

39 


Indissolubly  married  like  our  loTe ; 
Live,  and  be  happy  in  thyself,  and 
serve 

This  mortal  race  thy  kin  so  well,  that 
men 

May  bless  thee  as  we  bless  thee,  O 

young  life 
Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark ; 

and  may 

The  fated  channel  where  thy  motion 
lives 

Be  prosperously  shaped,  and  sway  thy 

course 

Along  the  years  of  haste  and  random 
youth 

Unshatter'd ;   then  full-current  thro* 

full  man  ; 
And  last  in  kindly  curves,  with  gentlest 

fall, 

By  quiet  fields,  a  slowly-dying  power, 
To  that  last  deep  where  we  and  thou 
are  still. 

n. 


Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 
deep. 

From  that  great  deep,  before  our  world 
begins. 

Whereon  the  Spirit  of  God  moves  as  he 

will- 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep, 

From  that  true  world  within  the  world 
we  see, 

Whereof  our  world  is  but  the  bounding 

shore- 
Out  of  the  deep,  Spirit,  out  of  the 

deep, 

With  this  ninth  moon,  that  sends  the 

hidden  sun 
Down  yon  dark  sea,  thou  comest,  darl* 

ing  boy. 

II. 

For  in  the  world,  which  is  not  ours. 
They  said 

*  Let  us  make  man  *  and  that  which 

should  be  man, 
From  that  one  light  no  man  can  look 

upon, 

Drew  to  this  shore  lit  by  the  suns  and 
moons 

And  all  the  shadows.    O  dear  Spirit 
half-lost 


610  TO  THE  REVEREND 

In  thine  own  shadow  and  this  fleshly 
sign 

That  thou  art  thou— who  wailest  being 
born 

And  banish'd  into  mystery,  and  the 
pain 

Of  this  divisible-indivisible  world, 
Among  the  numerable-innumerable 
Sun,  sun,  and  sun,  thro'  finite-infinite 
space 

In   finite-infinite   Time— our  mortal 
veil 

And  shatter' d  phantom  of  that  infinite 
One, 

Who  made  thee  unconceivably  Thyself 
Out  of  His  whole  World-self  and  all  in 
aU— 

live  thou  !  and  of  the  grain  and  husk, 
the  ^ape 

And    ivy-berry,    choose  ;    and  still 

depart  * 
From  death  to  death  thro'  life  and  life, 

and  find 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer  Him,  who 
wrought 

Not  Matter,  nor  the  finite-infinite, 
But  this  main-miracle,  that  thou  art 
thou. 

With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on 
the  world. 


THE  HUMAN  CRY. 


Hallowed  be  Thy  name  — Halle- 
luiah ! — 

Infinite  Ideality  ! 

Immeasurable  Reality  ! 

Infinite  Personality  ! 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name— Halleluiah  I 


II. 

We  feel  we  are  nothing— for  all  is  Thou 

and  in  Thee  ; 
We  feel  we  are  something- <Aa<  also 

has  come  from  Thee  ; 
We  know  we  are  nothing— but  Thou 

wilt  help  U8  to  be. 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name— Halleluiah  ! 


W.  H.  BROOKFIELD. 

PREFATORY  SONNET 

TO  THE  "  NINETEENTH  CENTUKY." 

Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and 
fast 

To  touch  all  shores,  now  leaving  to  the 
skill 

Of  others  their  old  craft  seaworthy 
still, 

Have  charter'd  this ;  where,  mindful 

of  the  past, 
Our  true  co-mates  regather  round  the 

mast ; 

Of  diverse  tongue,  but  with  a  common 
will 

Here,  in  the  roaring  moon  of  daffodil 
And  crocus,  to  put  forth  and  brave  the 
blast ; 

For  some,  descending  from  the  sacred 
peak 

Of    hoar  hi^h-templed  Faith,  have 

leagued  again 
Their  lot  with  ours  to  rove  the  worl4 

about ; 

And  some  are  wilder  comrades,  sworn 
to  seek 

If  any  golden  harbor  be  for  men 
In  seas  of  Death  and  sunless  gulfs  of 
Doubt. 


TO  THE  REV.  W.  H.  BROOKFIELD. 

Brooks,  for  they  call'd  you  so  that 

knew  you  best. 
Old  Brooks,  who  loved  so  well  to  mouth 

my  rhymes, 
How  oft  we  two  have  heard  St.  Mary's 

chimes! 

How  oft  the  Cantab  supper,  host  and 
guest, 

Would  echo  helpless  laughter  to  your 
jest ! 

How  oft  with  him  we  paced  that  walk 
of  limes, 

Him,  the  lost  light  of  those  dawn- 
golden  times. 

Who  loved  you  well  !  Now  both  are 
gone  to  rest. 

Yon  man  of  humorous  melancholy 
mark, 

Dccad  of  Home  inward  agony— is  il  so? 
Our   kiiKllier,   trustier  Jaques,  past 
away  1 


TO  VTCJ 

I  cannot  laud  this  liie.  it  looks  so 
dark  : 

2>cia?  o»/ap — dream  of  a  shadow,  go- 
God  bless  you.   I  shall  join  you  in  a 
day. 


MONTENEGRO. 

They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle 
sails, 

They  kept  their  faith,  their  freedom, 
on  the  height, 

Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  arm'd  by  day 
and  night 

Against  tlie  Turk ;  whose  inroad  no- 
where scales 

Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  foot- 
step fails, 

And  red  with  blood  the  Cresent  reels 
from  light 

Before  their  dauntless  hundreds,  in 
prone  fight 

By  thousands  down  the  crags  and  thro' 
the  vales . 

O  smallest  among  peoples  !  rough  rock- 
throne 

Of  freedom  !  warriors  beating  back  the 
swarm 

Of  Turkish  Islam  for  five  hundred 
years, 

Great  Tsernogora  !  never  since  thine 
own 


THE  CITY  CHILD. 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would 
you  wander  ? 
Whither  from  this  pretty  home,  the 
home  where  mother  dwells  ? 
*'  Far  and  far  away,'''  said  the  dainty  lit- 
tle maiden, 
*'A11  among  the  gardens,  auriculas, 
anemones, 
Roses  and  lilies  and  Canterbury -bells." 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  you 
wander  ? 

Whither  from  this  pretty  house,  this 
city-house  of  ours  ? 
"Far  and  far  away,"  said  the  dainty 

little  maidt-n, 
*'A11  among  the  meadows,  the  clover 
and  the  clematis, 
Daisies  andkingcuDS  and  hcmevsuckle- 


on  HUGO.  611 

Black  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  brake 
the  storm 

Has    breathed    a    race  of  mightier 
mountaineers. 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 

Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance, 
Cloud-weaver  of  phantasmal  hopes  and 
fears, 

French  of  the  Frerfch,  and  Lord  of 
human  tears  ; 

Child-lover  ;  Bard  whose  fame-lit  lau- 
rels glance 

Darkening  the  wreaths  of  al^  that 
would  advance. 

Beyond  our  strait,  their  claim  to  be 
thy  peers  ; 

Weird  Titan  by  thy  winter  weight  of 
years 

As  yet  unbroken,  Stormy  voice  of 
France  ! 

Who  dost  not  love  our  England— sc 
they  say  ; 

I  know  not — England,  France,  all  man 
to  be 

Will  make  one  people  ere  man's  race 
be  run  : 

And  I.  desiring  that  diviner  day, 
Yield  thee  full  thanks   for  thy  full 
courtesy 

To  younger  England  in  the  boy  my  soiu 


MINNIE  AND  WINNIE. 

Minnie  and  Winnie 

Slept  in  a  shell. 
Sleep,  little  ladies  ! 

And  they  slept  well. 
Pink  was  the  shell  within, 

Silver  without  ; 
Sounds  of  the  great  sea 

Wandered  about. 
Sleep,  little  ladies  ! 

Wake  not  soon  ! 
Echo  on  echo 

Dies  to  the  moon. 
Two  bright  stars 

Peep'd  into  the  shell. 
"  What  are  they  dreaming  <rf 

Who  can  tell  ? 
Started  a  green  linne*" 

Out  of  the  crof 
Wake,  little  ladies, 

T'he  sun  ^is  alof*^ ' 


BAT'fLE  OF  BRUNAKBUKH. 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 

Constantinus,  King  of  the  Scots,  after  having  sworn  allegiance  to  Athelstan, 
allied  himself  with  the  Danes  of  Ireland  under  Anlaf ,  and  invading  England, 
was  defeated  by  Athelstan  and  his  brother  Edmund  with  great  slaughter  at 
Brunanburh  in  the  yoar  937. 


♦Athelstan  King, 
Lord  among  Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower  and 
Baron  of  Barons, 
He  with  his  brother, 
Edmund  Atheling, 
Gaining  a  lifelong 
Glory  in  battle, 
Slew  with  the  sword-edge 
There  by  Brunanburh, 
Brake  the  shield-wall, 
Hew'd  the  linden-wood,t 
Hack'd  the  battle-shield, 
Sons   of    Edward    with  hammer'd 
brands. 

Ji. 

Theirs  was  a  greatness 
Got  from  their  Grandsires — 
Theirs  that  so  often  in 
Strife  with  their  enemies 
Struck  for  their   hoards   and  their 
hearths  and  their  homes. 

III. 

Bow'd  the  spoiler, 

Bent  the  Scotsman, 

Fell  the  ship-crews 

Doom'd  to  the  death. 
All  the  field  with  blood  of  the  fighters 

Flow'd,  from  when  first  the  great 

Sun-star  of  morning-tide. 

Lamp  of  the  T^ord  God 

Lord  everlasting, 
Glode  over  earth   till  the  glorious 
creature 

Sunk  to  his  setting. 


IV. 

There  lay  many  a  man 
Marr'd  by  the  javelin. 
Men  of  the  Northland 
Shot  over  shield. 
There  was  the  Scotsman 
Weary  of  war. 

V. 

We  the  West- Saxons, 
Long  as  the  daylight 
Lasted  in  companies 
Troubled  the  track  of  the  host  that 
we  hated. 

Grimly  with  swords  that  were  sharp 

from  the  grindstone. 
Fiercely  we  hack'd  at  the  flyers  before 

us. 

VI. 

Mighty  the  Mercian, 
Hard  was  his  hand-play, 
Sparing  not  any  of 
Those  that  with  Anlaf, 
Warriors  over  the 
Weltering  waters 
Borne  in  the  bark's  bosom, 
Drew  to  this  island, 
Doom'd  to  the  death. 

VII. 

Five  young  kings  put  asleep  by  the 

sword-stroke. 
Seven  strong  Earls  of  the  army  of 

Anlaf 

Fell  on   the  war -field,  numberless 

numbers, 
Shipmen  and  Scotsmen. 


•  I  have  more  or  less  availed  myself  of  my  son's  prose  translation  of  this  poem  in  the  Chn 
temporary  Review  (November  187(5). 
t  Shields  of  linden-wood. 


ACHILLES  OVER  THE  TRENCH 


Then  the  Norse  leader, 
Dire  was  his  need  of  it, 
Few  were  his  following, 
Fled  to  his  war-ship  ; 
Fleeted  his  vessel  to  sea  with  the  king 
in  it, 

Saving  his  life  on  the  fallow  flood. 

IX. 

Also  the  crafty  one, 
Constantmus, 
Crept  to  his  North  again, 
Hoar-headed  hero  ! 

X. 

Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  proud  of 

The  welcome  of  war-knives — 

He  that  was  reft  of  his 

Folk  and  his  friends  that  had 

Fallen  in  conflict, 

Leaving  his  son  too 

Lost  in  the  carnage, 

Mangled  to  morsels, 

A  youngster  in  war  ! 

XT. 

Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  glad  of 

The  clash  of  the  war-glaive— 

Traitor  and  trickster 

And  spurn er  of  treaties — 

He  nor  had  Anlaf 

With  armies  so  broken 

A  reason  for  bragging 

That  they  had  the  better 

In  perils  of  battle 

On  places  of  slaughter — 

The  struggle  of  standards. 

The  rush  of  the  javelins, 

The  crash  of  the  charges,* 

The  wielding  of  weapons — 

The  play  that  they  play'd  with 

The  children  of  Edward. 


Then  with  their  nail'd  prows 
Parted  the  Norsemen,  a 
Blood-redden'd  relic  of 
Javelins  over 

The  jarring  breaker,  the  deep- 
sea  billow, 

•  Lit  'tne  gathering  of  men.* 


I         Shaping  their  way  toward  Dy- 
efln  *  again, 
Shamed  in  their  souls. 

XIII. 

Also  the  brethren. 
King  and  Atheling, 
Each  in  his  glory, 
Went  to  his  own  in  his  own  West-Sax- 
onland. 
Glad  of  the  war. 


Many  a  carcass  they  left  to  be  carrion, 
Many  a  livid  one,  many  a  sallow- 
skin — 

Left  for  the  white-tail'd  eagle  to  tear 
it,  and 

Left  for  the  horny-nibb'd  raven  to 

rend  it,  and 
Gave  to  the  garbaging  war-hawk  to 

gorge  it,  and 
That  gray  beast,  the  wolf  of  the  weald. 


Never  had  huger 
Slaughter  of  heroes 
Slain  by  the  sword-edge— 
Such  as  old  writers 
Have  writ  of  in  histories— 
Hapt  in  this  isle,  since 
Up  from  the  East  hither 
Saxon  and  Angle  from 
Over  the  broad  billow 
Broke  into  Britain  with 
Haughty  war-workers  who 
Harried  the  Welshman,  when 
Earls  that  were  lured  by  the 
Hunger  of  glory  gat 
Hold  of  the  land. 


ACHILLES  OVER  THE  TRENCH. 

ILIAD,  xxii.  202. 

So  saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass'd  away. 
Then  rose  Achilles  dear  to  Zeus  ;  and 
round 

The    warrior's    puissant  shoulders 

Pallas  flung^ 
Her  fringed  aegis,  and  around  his  head 

•Dublin. 


•14 


TO  DANTE. 


The  glorious  goddess  wreath' d  a  golden 
cloud, 

And  from  it  lighted  an  all-shining 
flame. 

As  when  a  smoke  from  a  city  goes  to 
heaven 

Far  off  from  out  an  island  girt  by  foes, 
All  day  the  men  contend  in  grievous 
war 

From  their  own  city,  but  with  set  of 
sun 

Their  fires  flame  thickly,  and  aloft  the 
glare 

Flies  streaming,   if   perchance  the 

neighbors  round 
May  see,  and  sail  to  help  them  in  the 

war ; 

So  from  his  head  the  splendor  went  to 
heaven. 

From  wall  to  dike  he  stept,  he"  stood, 

nor  join'd 
The    A  chfeans— honoring   his  wise 

mother's  word — 
There  standing,  shouted,  and  Pallas 

far  away 

Call'd ;  and  a  Tboundless  panic  shook 
the  foe. 

For  like  the  clear  voice  when  a  trum- 
pet shrills, 

Blown  by  the  fierce  beleaguerers  of  a 
town, 

So  rang  the  clear  voice  of  iEakides  ; 
And  when  the  brazen  cry  of  -^akid^s 
Was  heard  among  the  Trojans,  all  their 
hearts 

Were  troubled,  and  the  full-maned 

horses  whirl'd 
The  chariots  backward,  knowing  griefs 

at  hand ; 

And  sheer-astounded  were  the  chariot- 
eers 

To  see  the  dread,  unweariable  fire 
That  always  o'er  the  great  Peleion's 
head 

Burn'd,  for  the  bright-eye4  goddess 
made  it  burn.  i  ^  f 

Thrice  from  the  dike  he  sent  his 
mighty  shout, 


I 


Thrice  backward  reel'd  the  Trojanf 

and  allies  ; 
And  there  and  then  twelve  of  their 

noblest  died 
Among  their  spears  and  chariots. 


TO  THE  PRINCESS  FREDERICA 
ON  HER  MARRIAGE. 

O  you  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  tho 
King  till  he  passed  away 
From  the  darkness  of  life- 
He  saw  not  his  daughter— he  blest  her; 
the  blind  King  sees  you  to-day, 
He  blesses  the  wife. 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

ON  THE  CENOTAPH  IN  WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY. 

Not  here !  the  white  North  has  thy 

bones :  and  thou, 
Heroic  sailor-soul. 
Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage 

now 

Toward  no  earthly  pole. 


TO  DANTE. 

(WRITTEN  AT  REQUEST  OF  THE  FLOR- 
ENTINES.) 

King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred 

years,  and  grown 
In  power,  and  ever  growest,  since 

thine  own 
Fair  Florence  honoring  thy  nativity, 
Hath  sought  the  tribute  of  a  vers© 

from  me,  '  ^ 
I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a  day. 
Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower  that  fades 

away.  .  , 


rmrm  Of  lUJKOis 


